Saetan and Sylvia Redux
by lethe2011
Summary: Story #2 of the Saetan Trilogy, sequel to "Saetan's Choice". It's Saetan's 25th wedding anniversary and everyone is thinking about it. Rated for moderate language/hint of slash  but nothing graphic .
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Anne Bishop owns the Black Jewels, not me. I just love the characters a lot, especially Saetan.

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**Kaeleer, Dhemlan Province, Halaway**

**The Daughter**

She walked through the garden, heading for home. She was not hurrying, but her strides were long and easy, making the Sceltie trot to stay beside her. The dark hair was clipped back, partially upswept. That was practical; it kept it out of her face while allowing the length to stay fairly long.

Bethani SaDiablo liked to think of herself as a practical person.

She glanced up at the Hall which rose above, on her left. SaDiablo Hall was massive, all the more impressive when one knew it stood in all three Realms, the only family hall to do so. The Hall in Terreille was in ruins, destroyed by its owner in a fit of rage two thousand years ago. But the Halls in Kaeleer and Hell remained.

Fifty thousand years ago their father had built the family seat as a statement of his power and wealth. But he and his family didn't live there any longer. Eldest brother Daemon, Prince Sadi, with his wife, Jaenelle Angelline, who was Witch, and their three children, now used it as their main residence.

Their other brother, Lucivar Yaslana, one of the greatest Eyrien warriors in the history of the Blood, lived with his family on the other side of the mountains, in the Keep at Ebon Rih in Askavi.

Both elder brothers were dark-jeweled Warlord Princes. Daemon wore the Black, Lucivar wore Ebon-gray. They were also the rulers of Territories, unlike most of their caste. Daemon ruled the Dhemlan territories in Kaeleer and Terreille, while Lucivar ruled over the Queens in the smaller province of Ebon Rih.

Her parents spent half the year in the village of Halaway, where her mother was Queen. The rest of the time they lived at the Keep at Ebon Askavi, a fact that had made her and her brother's friends gulp nervously.

She and Aidan didn't understand that reaction when they were children. To them Draca, the Seneschal, was as sweet as she was ancient, a kind of surrogate, if somewhat alien, grandmother. Geoffrey, the Keep's Librarian who was also from a long-dead race, was an indulgent uncle-figure who could sometimes be coaxed into telling them the most amazing stories about their father and brothers.

No matter how many stories they heard, they always wanted to hear more. And there always were more, because Papa had a _lot_ of history behind him.

Papa was Saetan Daemon SaDiablo – the High Lord of Hell, the Prince of the Darkness, High Priest of the Hourglass, the first Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and male Black Widow. Formerly the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, twenty-five years ago he married Sylvia, District Queen of the village of Halaway.

He was also a Guardian, and had been alive for over fifty thousand years.

His marriage sent shockwaves through all three Realms. No ancient Guardian had ever kept such strong ties to the Living Realm. Certainly none of the living dead had ever before gotten married at Saetan's advanced age, let alone had children!

But as Daemon said with his wry smile, it wasn't as if there was anyone who was going to stop the High Lord from doing anything he wanted to do.

Well, there was Lorn, legendary Prince of the Dragons, the last of his kind. He was not only the Darkness that infused the Keep, his scales were the Jewels the Blood were given. He had the power to stop Saetan. But he wouldn't, because Lorn had given his approval of Saetan's marriage.

Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh, could have stopped Saetan with only a word. But she also approved – in fact Jaenelle had performed the ceremony as Priestess.

Most Guardians grew weary of the half-life, fading into the Dark Realm either by choice or the gradual loss of Jeweled power.

But Jaenelle was the finest Healer in the Realms. Once a week without fail, she dosed her adoptive father with strengthening potions, which he eyed with dismay but dutifully swallowed. They kept him vigorous and healthy, a handsome man nearing the end of his prime. Tall, slender, with the dark hair and brown skin of the Hayllian race, gold eyes with dark lashes and arched brows, the High Lord was an attractive man to many women.

More than that, he possessed a seductive grace which he had passed on to his fourth son. Daemon Sadi, who was even more beautiful than their father, was legendary for his ability to seduce any woman and most men, Geoffrey told them. But everyone knew Jaenelle Angelline was the only woman in his heart.

And like their brothers, the father was lethal, dangerous, and violent, as all Warlord Princes are.

Being their father as well as their mother's husband, Saetan was also kind, generous, thoughtful, wise, and fun. He was, however, strict when it came to their obeying the Code of Honor all Blood live by. Their lessons in Protocol were lengthy and even stricter. Because of who they were – because of _what_ they were, his children – the twins were taught the history of all three Realms, not just what happened in the Shadow Realm.

But once lessons were over, fun was not only allowed, but encouraged. Sometimes it was just the two of them; often they played with their rambunctious "cousins", who were close to their age although they were actually nephews and nieces, a fact she and Aidan always found hilarious.

Nor was it unusual for their older siblings and parents to join in and _really _raise dust. Jaenelle possessed a mischievous sense of humor, with a charm that could coax even their beloved Papa to forget his dignity sometimes.

"_She was always a hellion, you know," _Geoffrey said, a twinkle in his black eyes._ "I can't count how many times your father was left speechless trying to deal with her – sometimes with anger, sometimes in exasperation, sometimes with laughter. She looked like such a frail little wisp of a girl, but she would do the most amazing things that could send a strong man into hysterics. We – me, Saetan, Mephis, Andulvar, Prothvar – would look at her sometimes, then we'd look at each other and all we could do was shrug. Because there was nothing we _could _do, as your father pointed out, except to love her and be there for her."_

Their father had adopted Jaenelle when she was twelve, and trained Witch as she grew. Bethani and Aidan were so proud when young to know their Papa was _her_ Papa. For obviously, if you could choose someone, there was no better Papa in any of the three Realms.

It was amazing to hear Papa had spent thousands of years by himself. The Family was so large these days, sometimes it felt you couldn't go anywhere without running into one of them.

There was Daemonar and Ruthvian, their Eyrien nephew and niece. And Daemon's children, son Rhaymon and the other set of twins, Karla and Kerin.

There was Cousin Surreal and her husband, Butler, and their daughter Larraine. Cousin Wilhemina, her husband Lyle, with their children: Jon, Alexia, and Bryan.

And then there was a host of adopted aunts and uncles who had formed Jaenelle's First and Second Circles, most of whom ruled various Provinces and Territories and had their own children.

Now that she and Aidan were adults, the twins could look back and marvel at the charmed childhood they had enjoyed.

They had played stickball with the Scelties in Queen Morghann's court, and slid down the terrifying steep slopes of Glacia's snowy mountains on wooden sleds with Della, Queen Karla's adopted daughter. They helped their parents harvest pickleberries on the Fyreborn Islands for the even more terrifying Mrs. Beale at the Hall, who was the best cook in the Living Realms.

Brother Lucivar and brother-by-marriage Kelsevar would carry them high into the skies, to glide over the gently curving Heartsblood River in Shalador Nehele, or on a heart-stoppingly fast plunge through the canyons at Askavi.

Warlord Prince Sceron of the centaurs gave them rides on his back. Prince Chaosti of the Dea al Mon, Cousin Surreal's people, taught them to track noiselessly through the forest trees, then trained them how to handle a knife until they could split the stem of a grass stalk at fifteen paces.

They petted the noses of shining unicorns, feeding them carrots. There were the wolf pups, descendants of Prince Smoke at the Hall and Prince Tassle at Ebon Rih, always ready for a game of rough-and-tumble, or pretend-stalking.

They played with the fierce young Arcerian kittens, whose parents had the most amazing ability to sight-shield themselves even from the darker-jeweled Blood. Cousin Della had lived for two weeks in an Arcerian cat's den when she was first orphaned, and could claim Warlord Prince KaeAskavi as her den-brother, for which all her many adoptive cousins envied her tremendously.

Astonishing to think of a time when those in Terreille tried to make a case for slaughtering the Kindred and stealing their land because they were 'only animals with a a few tricks!'

*Some humans are stupid,* Gleeda said, giving a tail-tip wag as Bethani glanced down at her, smiling. A glitter of a Rose Jewel gleamed through her brown-and-black coat.

*Yes, but not all of them.*

*No. The Lady's humans are smart. They can be trained.*

Bethani's smile became a grin. Kindred thought in animal terms, even when they knew the humans had their own words for objects or ideas. So leather pants, for instance, were usually referred to as "cow-skin".

Humans were divided into two groups: 'the Lady's', which meant Jaenelle Angelline, for those who were friends to the Kindred. The larger group consisted of humans who were afraid of, or didn't like the Kindred. They were the group for whom the forest wolves and Arcerian cats used a phrase that translated as 'stupid meat'. Even the Scelties, who were fond of "their" humans – 'stubborn sheep' was their usual grumble when dealing with a particularly annoying two-foot – would nip fast enough if the humans didn't behave properly.

Though she had grown up with Kindred, it was different to actually _work_ for one. She had been in Basic service at several Halls since the age of twelve, starting with her family Hall and ending at Cousin Wilhemina's manor, when her parents came to visit her. They asked if she might be interested in working next in Terreille, for Jaenelle's pet project, sending small groups of young Blood aristos to help in the still-devastated courts.

Of _course_ she was. Even though her father warned, "This won't be easy, or simple. These people have had a hard time, and even after all these years, things are still not settled down."

But she wanted to do this, so she entered service for a year in Queen Rhahn's court in Dena Nehele. Rhahn was Sceltie, a Green-Jeweled Kindred. Sent to Grayhaven Manor by Witch, she was helping them learn the Old Ways again.

The few Warlords who were left – less than thirty – were tough fighting men, but they'd lost so many of their traditions and culture, it was shocking. She came with a dozen others from Kaeleer to help Rhahn's First Circle, to both teach and be taught. Cousin Larraine was one of her group. She took charge of the reading group that took the books on Protocol they had brought and distributed them out to the four Provinces. They didn't just drop off packages in the villages and hope they would be read in the spare time hardly anyone had, trying to keep their people fed and clothed.

Instead, the youngsters would stay for two months at a time, in different parts of the provinces. They shared rooms with a host family to learn what those day-to-day lives were really like. One of their duties was to read aloud every evening for an hour, four times a week – not just the Protocol books, but stories and histories of the three Realms which they had brought along as well.

During the daytime, they worked alongside their hosts. The young men helped in the fields, or built sturdy furniture for Blood and Landen families who had almost nothing left. They put on new roofs, chinked walls, repaired doors and window shutters and fences.

The young woman, including Larraine and Bethani, also worked in the fields, doing the sowing or winnowing. They repaired workclothes and helped make meals. They planted gardens and watched over little children.

It was hard, exhausting work, but it was the most rewarding thing she'd ever done. The look in people's eyes when they saw aristo children giving time and sweat to help, instead of just taking and abusing – she had made friends there, good friends. Not fashionable, idle society people, but hard-working folks trying to keep body and soul together to survive the harsh winters.

It was a way of life to open their eyes, and make one better appreciate the lives they had, after their contracts were up and they could go home. Several of her original group returned to help again, something that happened quite often, Jaenelle told them with satisfaction. Cousin Larraine was on her third contract, although she said this was going to be her last.

Bethani's mind returned to the present as the Sceltie barked excitedly, running down a curving side path.

*Aidan!* Gleeda's tail wagged again as she bounded over to greet her favorite human.

Laughing, her twin knelt down. "No way to ever sneak up on anyone with a Sceltie around," he grinned, then gently roughhoused the Sceltie. "Hello, beautiful! Hell's fire, has Bethani been crawling under the redberry thickets again? I'm going to have to give you a good brushing when we get back, or Mother won't let you in the house with those burrs in your coat."

Gleeda wiggled happily as strong fingers scratched along her spine. *We went to Dharo,* the Sceltie whined. *Hanlee and I played 'chase' with the puppies.*

Aidan looked up at his sister. "And how are Sabrina and her 'pups' doing?"

She hooked her thumbs into her belt. "Everyone's fine. Grayson's birth celebration is coming up next month. She'll be throwing a big party, as always, and we're invited – also as always."

Sabrina, the Territory Queen of Dharo, was a childhood friend of their sister Jaenelle. She had been a member of Witch's court, and was one of their favorite "aunts". Their mother Sylvia had known Jaenelle and her friends even before they had made their Offerings to the Darkness, when they had all come to stay at the Hall for one memorable summer.

"We turned everything upside-down," laughed Jaenelle. "I think poor Papa aged a couple of millennia in those few weeks!"

It had never bothered their mother that she was only a District Queen, consorting with more powerful Territory Queens and Black Widows. Sylvia was content with the village of Halaway, and Saetan – well, Saetan still ruled all of Hell, and might have remained the Warlord Prince of both Dhemlan territories, if he had wished.

With his Black Jewels, he could have ruled all three Realms...and with his two powerful sons at his side, established a dynastic rule to last countless millenia.

The fact that he hadn't, as Geoffrey told them long ago, meant something very important.

"_Your father has upheld the Old Ways of the Blood all his life. It means he takes his duty and honor seriously. The First Rule for a Warlord Prince is to protect. When Saetan gives his word to protect someone, he'll give his life, his Jewels, everything he is, to live up to that word. When someone like that defends not just one Queen, but so many others, it's a heavy responsibility. Never underestimate how much blood can be spilled, how many thousands will die, when you give your word of honor. It has cost Saetan dearly – friends and family – to protect those who depended upon him."_

Her brother rose to his feet and fell in alongside her, as Gleeda bounded ahead of them. "Lucivar and Marian will be with us for dinner."

"With Ruthvian?" Daemonar, older by sixteen years, was off at an Eyrian training exercise, a mock "killing field" battle. He was a Warlord Prince with a Birthright Red Jewel, and almost as good a warrior as his father.

"Yes, she'll be back from Terreille in time."

Ruthvian was closer to their age, only six years older. She was an easy-tempered, cheerful witch who wore a Birthright Green Jewel. She often visited her maternal grandmother, usually going alone since Marian wasn't close to her family any longer, except for Lirian and Kelsevar.

"My family isn't like the SaDiablos," Marian once confessed to them, shrugging. "My father was a social climber, and a mean, petty sort of man. We do send money regularly to my mother every month, but—" she shrugged again, looking sad. "My brothers and sisters, except for Lirian, are always seeking more money from us."

She had sighed. "If they really needed funds, we'd help, of course. But they're just trying to make me feel guilty, so they can get their hands on some of the SaDiablo gold. That's the trouble with being rich, you see. A lot of people try to be friendly, but they won't really mean it. They just want something from you for free."

Taking a batch of nutcakes out of the oven, she put them on a rack to cool. Then she added, "I was so lucky when I ended up here at Ebon Rih. I have a wonderful husband, and a brother and sister who love me and don't look down on me for being just a Purple Dusk-jeweled hearth witch. And best of all, there's Saetan. I think he's been more of a father to me than my own father ever was. Such a wonderful, wonderful man. You don't know how fortunate you two are, having a father like that."

As Bethani and Aidan reached the house, the door opened for them. Holt, their butler, formerly a footman up at the Hall, had replaced Armind, their mother's old butler, when he asked to retire.

"The Queen is due back in an hour. The High Lord is in his study, and has asked not to be disturbed. Dinner is set for seven," he advised them. "Your second brother, his wife and daughter will be arriving half an hour before the bell."

"Good, enough time for a bath. Thank you, Holt," said Aidan with a smile, and the twins ran up the stairs to their rooms.

By the time Bethani walked into her bedroom, the bath was ready and her dinner outfit laid out on the bed. Clarey, her personal maid, had been alerted as soon as she stepped off the Landing by a quick distaff message from Gleeda, who knew very well what her humans' routines were.

Bethani stripped off her trousers and shirt, then stepped into the steaming-hot water of the tub. She could have a good long soak before Clary came back in to help her put up her hair.

She loved the new outfit. The flowing skirt was in the fashionable three-quarters' length. It was patterned in marbelized swirls of color, reds and rusty browns and muted greens, printed on golden yellow silk. With it she would wear a simple top of leaf-green silk trimmed in dark red, designed with a scoop neck and short sleeves to show off the gold chain and ruby cabochon pendant Papa had purchased for her almost two years previous. She liked jewelry, and owned a good-sized collection of it. Jeweled pins for her hair were also out on the sidetable.

Sometimes receiving such service still caught her by surprise. Unlike most of her peers, she hadn't been allowed a personal maid, except on special occasions, until she reached her twentieth birthday.

It was a privilege she would not take for granted, knowing it hadn't been given to her before now because her parents wanted her to understand the value of work, and to appreciate service when received.

As Queen Cassidy once told her, a Queen should never be afraid of hard work.

She would – someday soon, she hoped – make her parents proud of her.


	2. The Eyrien Warrior

**Kaeleer, Ebon Rih, the Keep**

**The Eyrien warrior**

Dinner was going to be formal attire, which would have made him snarl if it weren't for the fact that it was always the rule with his father.

It helped that being an Eyrien male, all it meant was he had to shower and change into a clean pair of pants. Saetan could be surprisingly flexible for a Warlord Prince. But he drew the line at allowing anyone to show up at his dinner table dusty and sweaty.

And hell, Marian liked to dress up once in a while; he could tell. She and their daughter had fussed over clothes, hair and jewelry this morning. So it was pretty obvious, even to him, that she was looking forward to dinner tonight and wanted to look her best. She always looked beautiful to his eyes. But the smoky topaz and pearl necklace he had given her on her birthday – which Daemon helped him pick out – worn with a flowing ivory gown, did make her eyes look more golden and mysterious.

Ruthvian, in a dress the color of the waters around the Paw Islands, looked beautiful as ever. But that only made him growl, and have to stifle an impulse to throw the tablecloth around her chest and tell her to cover herself up.

It wasn't easy being a father...even less so when one was the father of a beautiful, smart, stubborn woman.

He had discovered it wasn't much fun being the one who had to endure _his_ children alternately terrifying, horrifying, or simply infuriating him. It was like being spun down the Khaldaron Run...without wings, in hurricane winds.

There were too many days – and nights – when he wondered how Saetan was able to endure this whirlwind dance all over again. First with Jaenelle, then the twins, without wanting to fall back into the Twisted Kingdom, just to get away from it all.

Hell, it had been hard enough on him when Ruthvian was old enough to start dating. He wanted to break the legs of any boy who even _looked_ at his daughter. Only Marian laying down the law had stopped him from doing just that.

For Saetan, whose only previous experience was raising Jaenelle, it must be twice as bad, having two pups to raise at once. Cat had long been skittish about sex, the aftermath of the traumatic rape she endured at the age of twelve. And Saetan stayed away from aristo Society, having neither the interest or inclination to associate with them. There hadn't been any hordes of randy young men hovering around his adopted daughter – at least, not whenever he was nearby.

But things were different now. The twins enjoyed a normal upbringing in a village where everyone knew everybody else...which meant there _were_ hordes of randy young men following Bethani, as well as flirtatious young women hanging around Aidan.

As their brother and sister grew up, he and Daemon watched in amusement as his father and Sylvia struggled with the same issues they did with _their _children. It didn't seem to matter how powerful one's Jewels were, when it came to being a parent. But everyone seemed to have muddled through successfully in the end. All the pups had come out just fine.

Cat's idea of sending the younger Blood out, not to fashionable courts in the cities but to Terreillean Provinces devastated by Hayll's perversions and the loss of so many Blood, had proven a resounding success.

It made the younger males and females a damned sight more appreciative of the ease and luxury they lived in, while giving them the chance to find out how rewarding it was to get dirty and accomplish something that made a big difference in the lives of everyday people, whether Blood or Landen.

Although it still made Lucivar grin to think of Surreal being a _mother._

They arrived at Halaway Manor in plenty of time to enjoy a glass of wine before dinner in one of the small parlors. Everyone was assembled but Bethani. She appeared a few minutes later, just in time to avoid being pronounced late for dinner.

Lucivar, standing by one of the windows, turned around to glance at her. One of her earrings was crooked, he automatically noted, and grinned. Realizing she was going to be the last one in, she had probably run down the stairs, clipping them on by touch alone.

Despite the eyes watching her, she walked across the room with perfect composure to greet her parents first, with a kiss for each one. "Mama. Papa."

Sylvia studied her daughter with approval. "Very nice, my dear," she said with a smile.

"If four inches too short," their father interjected, a twinkle in his eyes. Holding a glass of wine, he took a sip as he winked at his daughter. "Still, I can't complain when the changing winds of fashion have at last brought in a more feminine elegance than an endless parade of long pants for women."

His wife made a face, making Saetan chuckle. Sylvia and Cat preferred wearing pants to gowns. Lucivar knew it had taken considerable persuasion to get his stepmother into wearing clothes that showed off the jewelry Saetan enjoyed buying for 'his girls', as he liked to call his wife and daughter.

But that was one argument he preferred to stay far away from. Thank the Darkness Daemon had been willing to step into the middle of it, and offer a solution. His brother was no warrior, but there was nothing wrong with his guts.

Facing the High Lord of Hell was scary enough. Getting in between the High Lord and his hot-tempered, feisty stepmother – _that_ took a degree of courage this Eyrien warrior didn't, and would never, have.

Bethani then turned to him. "Lucivar. Hello, Marian, Ruthvian," she greeted them in proper order, punctuated with an affectionate embrace and a kiss for each one.

Lucivar gave her his lazy, arrogant smile. "You'll be at practice tomorrow?" but it wasn't really a question, as anyone who knew Lucivar was aware.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, big brother, I will be at practice tomorrow, I promise."

Marian laughed, her eyes dancing. "You look lovely, dear," she said. "Is that one of Varushke's designs, or Kaliyoppi?"

"Varushke's," Bethani replied. "Although I did pick up a new tunic at Kaliyoppi's shop last week. It's the most unusual color – you'll have to see it, I think you'd like it."

He groaned at the "girl talk", and Marian jabbed him, not lightly, in the ribs. "Stop it, Lucivar," she scolded. "And tell your sister and stepmother how nice they both look."

Casting swift glances over both women, Lucivar shrugged. "They always look good," he growled. "Especially draped in all that jewelry Father likes to buy every time he goes into Amdarh. Banard probably counts on an entire display case being cleaned out whenever the SaDiablos come into town."

Marian rolled her eyes. "Men!" she sighed. "At least Eyrien men. Sometimes I think you aren't related to your brother and father at all."

Lucivar snarled automatically as his sister laughed. She gently punched him in the arm. _Very_ gently. Handling an Eyrien Warlord Prince was always a test of balancing atop razor-sharp edges. "It's all right, Lucivar. I promise next time you need to buy something for Marian or Jaenelle, I'll go with you and help you pick it out."

It worked; Lucivar gave a bark of laughter and relaxed again. "I'll hold you to that, Bet," he replied, grinning.

"Want to come along, Aidan?" she turned to her twin with a teasing smile. "You could buy a trinket or two for Stasya at the same time."

Aidan blushed a little, but said composedly, "Kind of you, sister, but I think I'm capable of buying my own presents without assistance."

Lucivar noted that his father and Sylvia glanced at their son, but said nothing. Smart parents, both of them. These two were a handful, but their parents held the reins lightly, just as Saetan had done when his sons had come back to him.

Bethani was growing into a lovely young woman, clever without meanness and sweet without insipidity. Like her brother, she was well educated, not just in Protocol but art, literature and history.

She was also a powerful Queen and Black Widow, with a Sapphire Birthright Jewel. Considering that massive dowry, it was just as well she had an array of formidable males behind her, ready to protect their women.

A rich prize, his little sister.

The twins had their father's chiseled features, softened slightly by their mother's generous mouth. Saetan was a handsome man. Every one of his children had inherited not only his looks but a goodly dose of Dark-Jeweled power as well.

_No wonder Dorothea craved his bloodline so much she stole Daemon and me so she could breed us. Those kids won't make the Offering for a few years yet, but I'd bet there won't be a single one of the next generation who's any less than a Sapphire or Red._

And her disappointment when both he and Daemon refused to breed, had probably increased the viciousness with which they were treated.

It made him queasy all over again to remember how easily he could have died while growing up. Saetan didn't make idle threats. The capital city of Draega, as well as the Askavi valley where the entire Eyrien race came from, would have been eliminated.

He wasn't even certain the physical ground would have remained. According to Andulvar, everything about Zuulaman had vanished, including its demon-dead in Hell, every piece of art or literature or music, the very islands themselves...even the Registers of Birth at the Keep were forever gone.

His father had done it once before upon the death of a son. Hekatah and Dorothea had enough sense to fear he would do it again. But those bitches were dead, and Cat had twisted Saetan's curse to lessen its danger. Lucivar blew out a relieved breath and finished his ale.

He cast a thoughtful glance over his young brother as everyone rose to their feet to enter the dining room.

Aidan was slightly taller than his sister, but they both stood around Saetan's height, almost four inches above their mother. They were a bit more solidly built than the High Lord. Aidan had broader shoulders, and Bethani her mother's curves. He had the grace of a young warrior – Aidan was one of the few who actually _liked_ Lucivar's mandatory morning drills. It was not quite the feline grace of Saetan, though. That seemed to have gone only to Daemon, who was truly their father's mirror.

Aidan was also turning into a heartbreaker. Not quite so beautiful as their brother, but getting closer as he matured to their father's ageless good looks. His black hair curled a little more, but Aidan must look much as Saetan had, when he was still a young Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince in Queen Cassandra's court. Like his sister, he wore the Sapphire.

The pup was neatly dressed the same way Daemon always was, in well-fitted black pants and jacket with a white silk shirt. Their eldest brother had been his hero for years.

_A new experience for the Sadist,_ Lucivar said to Daemon with a laugh.

Of course, this was a new experience for all of them. They hadn't had very long with their father, just a few years, before he unexpectedly fell in love with a sassy Dhemlan witch who was the District Queen for the village near the Hall.

Saetan had a lot of firsts in his long life, but this had to be one of the biggest. He would never stop being amazed at the man, who had returned late into his sons' lives but wielded greater influence on them than anyone. Their father had more power than anyone else, living or dead, except for Daemon. But though he and Daemon were feared in the Living Realms, they were nothing to the reputation of the High Lord of Hell.

Nor had the sons killed half as many people.

But only Lucivar knew how many bodies Saetan had actually left on the killing fields. Not even Andulvar, Saetan's best friend, ever suspected that the High Lord had broken one of his own rules to wipe out Hekatah's secret army fifty thousand years ago.

For a week after figuring it out, he wrestled with the idea of telling Daemon. But he decided against it. Somebody should know, though. He felt that was important, without knowing why.

Finally he went to the Keep, asking Geoffrey to write it down for him. "I don't care what you do with it," he told the librarian honestly. "But I thought someone else should know the truth besides me and him."

Geoffrey nodded. "Yes, you're right. I won't show this to anyone, not as long as your father walks in the Living Realms. But it is an important part of history, and it deserves not to be lost, as so much else has been."

Watching Saetan smiling warmly across the table at Sylvia, Lucivar thought, _He's my father. He _is_ history, the living history of the Blood. Everything we can be, everything we should be. Maybe it was worth all that shit with Dorothea's bitches, all the sweat and blood and pain Daemon and I endured, to have him waiting here for us. To love us no matter what we'd done, what we'd been, while we were away from him._

Catching his father's eye, he raised his glass in silent salute. Saetan was puzzled, unaware of what his son was thinking, but returned the salute with a fond smile.

He felt the love in that smile, the unstinting affection which made up for all the slurs he'd endured during his youth.

Looking at the twins as they laughed and talked, Lucivar thought,_ You're so lucky. You've had him all your lives, every day. You can take it for granted he will always be there for you. You don't realize how rare a man this is. How rare a father we have._

_You are so lucky._


	3. The Queen

**Kaeleer, Dhemlan province, Halaway**

**The Queen**

At one time she would have flat-out refused to dress up for dinner. But marriage meant compromise, she was firmly told. And so she had.

And so had her husband. That was fair, both of them giving in a little.

_Her husband_.

It still amazed her she had one. And that it was _him._

Saetan Daemon SaDiablo. Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, Black Widow, High Lord of Hell, High Priest of the Hourglass, Prince of the Darkness. And only Darkness knew how many more titles and nicknames he'd earned over the last fifty thousand years. And every one of them deserved.

Only if one watched carefully, saw how little food he needed, recognized the distinctive aroma of the yarbarah he drank three times daily, would one realize he was a Guardian. Had lived so many thousands of years, many people believed him to be a legend, a myth to frighten little children.

Marrying Saetan had been an amazing change in her life. But it almost hadn't happened, not just once, but twice.

After the Witchstorm he withdrew from the Living Realms, breaking off their relationship. But three years later, saying he couldn't step away as other Guardians had done, he had asked her to marry him.

She said yes.

When Sylvia stopped by the neat cottage where Tersa lived, to tell her the news – she was deeply fond of Prince Sadi's mother – Tersa was in one of her lucid periods. Even broken, she was a powerful Black Widow. Grabbing Sylvia's hand, she spoke.

_The Web is the Triangle,_ Tersa told her as she traced the shape on her palm.

_Father, Brother, Lover. Bound together by the Queen._

Jaenelle Angelline. Witch.

Sylvia understood. Saetan loved her, but he was Jaenelle's father and former steward of Witch's Court. He served her first and always would. She had Saetan's heart. He would die for her, kill for her. But for Witch the High Lord would crawl on his hands and knees over broken glass.

She could accept that. Witch was the living myth, dreams made flesh. She was the darkest Power among the Blood, and even without a Court everyone knew she ruled Kaeleer. Terreille cowered under her shadow.

Then two days later, Prince Sadi asked to see her privately. He came to talk to her for an entire evening, to make sure she understood what she was getting into with the SaDiablos. Sylvia listened to the Prince without speaking, topping off their wineglasses periodically. She thought she was prepared...but she wasn't, couldn't have been.

Some of what he said amazed her. A lot of what he said surprised her. And some of it horrified her. She could never have imagined Saetan had lived through so much, done so much, endured so much, for so many lifetimes.

When he was finished, Daemon asked if she had any questions. He had talked for so many hours, the smooth, deep voice had grown hoarse.

Picking up her wine, Sylvia finished it off, looking into the fire. Then she looked up at him as he stood before her. Really studied the man who had asked her to call him by his first name, who might become her stepson.

Beautiful, lethal man, whose Black-Jeweled power and fiery temper was inherited directly from the man she had just promised to marry.

After seventeen centuries, Daemon and Lucivar finally found freedom, family, and happiness with the women they loved. All of which they would never have had without their father's encouragement and support.

For _five hundred_ _centuries_, Saetan had no one, except for a few friends who became demon-dead.

She cleared her throat. "Prince – I mean, Daemon – tell me honestly. Do you think I can make your father happy?"

She had surprised him; his eyebrows went up. But he knelt down before her chair so that their eyes were level. He took her hands in his own – slender, strong, with the black-tinted nails so like his father's, that she felt a shiver run up her spine.

Then he smiled, the smile all his own, the one which few people besides his family ever saw. "Sylvia, darling, I do think you'll make him happy. As long as you understand that his _power_ is something to be frightened of. But not the man himself. And it's that man you'll be marrying."

She shook her head. "He's a Warlord Prince as well as a man. If I marry one, I marry the other."

"Yes." Daemon sat back on his heels, locking his eyes with hers. "And that Warlord Prince is the most powerful and famous in the history of the Blood, whose temper should never be underestimated. But if he loves you with everything he is – and Saetan Daemon SaDiablo would only agree to marry you if it _was _with everything he is – then you will have everything you need to make him happy."

He released her hands, rose to his feet again to pace, oddly restless. "It isn't...easy being a SaDiablo. We are the darkest Jeweled males in all the Realms. We have no equals except for one another. We're wealthy beyond most people's imagining. Imagine you are one of us, Lady. Imagine what it's like, being constantly fawned over, yet watching others cringe away from you. People who want your body, your money, your power...but they don't want _you._"

Daemon stopped, thrust his hands in his pockets. She sensed the tension in him. This was as much personal as it was for his father. For a moment he was silent, then he spoke slowly, carefully.

"To be loved in spite of what we are – killers and predators more powerful than any other males – is our dream. Most people are afraid of us. We're not liked, we're never trusted. But our wives, those special lovers who understand, know that we've surrendered to them completely. Everything we are, every drop of Jeweled power, is focused on protecting and cherishing our own."

Turning, he stared into the fire as if it was easier to speak without looking. "All three of us have had women who tried to hide their fear of us. Who were in our beds only because they wanted to control the power we had. But none of them were willing to trust us, couldn't trust that we believed in, and lived by, the Old Ways."

Daemon took a deep breath, and turned back to face her. "There are times...when Jaenelle comes into my arms, or Marian goes to Lucivar – they're nervous, excited. Almost to the edge of fear, sometimes even a little over that line. It adds a dimension to sex that heightens it for both partners. But that's only bedplay, a game in which Saetan is a master. It never should be _real_ fear, the kind that eats into your gut. Because for that special woman who understands the power she holds over us, we will do anything to please her. Everything to protect her. Because most people _don't_ trust us, but that one woman does. It makes her unique – and priceless to that man."

She felt a pang of sympathy. Wasn't what he was describing almost identical to the pain she had endured from Flynt?

When you couldn't find someone who would love you the way you were, it made you feel as if there was no reason for someone to love you at all, except for rank and status. And wasn't that precisely what happened to Saetan, when he married that triple-damned Hayllian witch?

She cleared her throat again. "Thank you, Daemon. I think I understand your father a little better now. And...I need to think about everything you've said."

Daemon Sadi nodded. He picked up her hand, and bowed over it in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. "It's late, and I ask your pardon for staying so long. I've given you much to think about, I know."

But the look he gave her through his lashes was little-boy mischievous. It was the first time she had ever seen him drop his guard, the cold persona that he used for everyone outside of a few friends and family.

It took her breath away, and made her realize how much he was his father's son. "Thank you for being willing to listen to me," he added softly.

She was still staring when he turned serious again. "One more thing. You hold his heart, Lady. It's been broken before...not just once, but many times. It's difficult for him to risk everything again. If you think you can't love him the way he needs, with all of _your_ heart, then I'll ask you to have the courage to withdraw now, before it's too late. None of us will hold it against you.

"We aren't easy men to love, and we'll never be the easiest of men to live with. Hell's fire, there are times we frighten one another silly, when one of us loses his temper. But Saetan is my father, and I know he has more love to give than any man I've ever met. Give him a chance. And yourself, as well."

For several days afterwards she had thought about all of it. Her. Him. Who he was, and what this was going to mean for both of them.

Yes, he was the most powerful Warlord Prince ever. He had walked off the killing fields leaving thousands of dead bodies behind. He could destroy armies of the demon-dead with a single thought. He had once wiped out an entire race, eliminating every trace of them.

He was what he was – a Warlord Prince of unsurpassed power.

Did she fear that power? _Of course _she did. She wasn't an idiot. To know that even his own sons found him fearsome was oddly reassuring.

But did she fear the _man_ who wielded that power? Daemon's words had crystallized those nebulous feelings.

No, she didn't. Saetan might kill her, if she were so stupid as to do something vicious and treacherous and contrary to everything the Blood stood for. But it would be because duty demanded it, as a Warlord Prince. He took no joy in killing, would never deliberately inflict pain upon the innocent. And he respected women, had a gallant courtliness learned when he was young and had never lost.

She was a Queen. The rules of Protocol were second nature for her. She had followed the Old Ways all her life. She knew how to handle a Warlord Prince, how to dance on the edge of that deadly passionate temper.

It was only a question of whether she was willing to do that dance with an extraordinarily powerful Blood male.

_Everything has its price._

She went ahead with the wedding.

She had never regretted a single moment. It hadn't been easy, sometimes. But there were so many other moments that were unforgettable, bright warm candle-bursts of happiness and love. As she slid her feet into bright silk sandals, Sylvia grinned. She couldn't help it.

For years she had only worn clothes she considered practical. Saetan, however, preferred to dress more formally, especially for dinner.

They hadn't even picked the wedding date when the two of them started squaring off, tempers flaring, over her dislike of having to 'dress up' for the evening meal, something the High Lord had always insisted upon in his home.

Fortunately for the impending marriage, Prince Sadi came up with a solution. He had recently invested in a new business, a dressmaker whose talents he admired while in Glacia visiting friends. "Why don't we see what this new dressmaker can do? She's very talented, and may be able to design something that will please both of you."

It sounded so reasonable, she couldn't refuse. And after she spent an afternoon with Surreal, Jaenelle, and Marian in the woman's shop, she was glad she hadn't.

Eager to please her new patron, Varushke drew up sketches showing stylish separate pieces for the Queen to wear at home. They weren't quite pants, nor were they skirts, having just enough of both to please two stubborn people with diametrically opposed viewpoints.

"We wish to be comfortable, of course! To move about with ease," the dressmaker gestured expressively. "But it is important – essential, even! – for a Queen to look well, correct? Husbands care about such things, as we all know. Not the details, certainly, but every man appreciates a woman who looks beautiful, even if he does not know _why_ she looks good. It's only important that she _does_. Is that not so, Ladies?"

Sylvia could hardly disagree with her, not with her three companions nodding wisely. Then Surreal smiled mischievously and pointed out, "After all, she's not just a District Queen any longer. She's going to be the new matriarch of the SaDiablo clan."

Even Jaenelle was taken aback, but after a moment she agreed. "Surreal's right, Sylvia. You aren't just marrying Daemon's and Lucivar's father. You're marrying the High Lord of Hell, who's also a Guardian. So both of you are going to be watched by everybody, perhaps for a good long while."

She hadn't thought of it in quite those terms...because she didn't want to. There was no escaping this, was there? Sylvia heaved a sigh. _Damn damn damn._

Resigning herself to an uncomfortable position as the second highest-ranked Lady in Kaeleer, she gave in and purchased an entire new wardrobe.

Although she didn't have to pay for anything except new shoes, as it turned out. She kept expecting to receive a bill from the dressmaker, only to discover her new stepchildren had paid for the whole thing as her wedding present.

It was...breathtaking. Sylvia had never worried about money, the District tithes being more than sufficient to take care of her expenses, which were modest except for what she spent on her boys. So it wasn't as though she couldn't afford the new wardrobe. But her stepchildren only laughed at her protests. Jaenelle hugged her, pleading, "Let us do this for you, darling. We love you both, and it will please Daemon and Lucivar a great deal."

Her modest manor did need some remodeling to accommodate a Warlord Prince and Black Widow who had a surprisingly large number of people who regularly visited him. But Saetan tactfully insisted upon paying for that himself, as she could hardly argue the point that such a major expense wouldn't be necessary if it weren't for him moving in.

He also told her he was setting up an account for her, to ensure she had adequate funds to maintain herself, her boys, and the several new households she would be in charge of.

Saetan's idea of "adequate", however, turned out to be far beyond what _she_ thought the word meant. Sylvia wasn't prepared for the enormous sums listed in the settlement papers.

She almost fainted when she saw the size of the principal Saetan had settled on her. And that money would belong to her alone, whether they remained together or not. Just a single quarterly income payment was twice her current annual income!

And despite what he said, the money was for her own personal expenses. She would have, said Marcus, the SaDiablo money manager, full control of the huge household budget used to maintain her home, the part of the Keep they would be living in half the year, and two smaller residences Saetan used as his own. One was in Scelt, not far from Jaenelle's home, and the other was in Dhemlan Terreille, near the Western sea.

The other SaDiablo residences scattered around the Living Realms were always available for any one of the Family to use, she was told, but the upkeep for those was the responsibility of Prince Sadi.

There were only – _only!_ - six of these, since Surreal and Butler long ago purchased their own townhouse in Amdarh, and Lucivar preferred the estate he had purchased for Marian in Nyokae, within easy distance of the Fyreborn Islands.

So Lady Sylvia was now responsible managing for three and one-half households, Marcus explained. A total of seventy-three servants, instead of the dozen she had before. Although, he added as an afterthought, there was land attached to the other houses as well.

But not very much, he assured her. Just another two dozen families, farming on about fifteen hundred acres of land.

And Saetan had instructed him to start looking for another home – he hoped the High Lord had already mentioned it to her? Somewhere in Nharkhava, or perhaps Dharo...nothing lavish, certainly, no more than six or eight bedrooms with a sufficiently large property attached. Did the Lady have any preferences for one over the other? Or should his people be looking in a different area?

Or would she prefer something bigger, perhaps?

The High Lord had not mentioned it, but she should have expected him to do such a thing. It was one of the advantages of an extended lifespan – one accumulated an awful lot of wealth along the way. And Saetan had already had a _very_ long lifespan. With a sigh of resignation, Sylvia told him, "Dharo would be fine. Nothing too large, however. Thank you, Marcus."

The new wardrobe began to arrive in colorfully wrapped boxes. Oddly, there seemed to be rather more of it than she remembered ordering. But everything fit so well, and looked attractive without being uncomfortable to wear. Her old clothes hadn't given her this sense of _ease,_ of feeling feminine without fuss or frills.

Varushke was brilliant, Sylvia admitted. Far more talented than the previous dressmaker she had used in Tallagio. And the warm pride in Saetan's eyes when he looked at her, made her admit it was worthwhile.

Even if she did have to find closet space for all the shoes Surreal talked her into buying.

She still wore pants and boots during the daytime. Hell's fire, she was a _Queen,_ and Queens had work to do. But now the pants were cut and fitted to her figure, which had always been a little too rounded than was fashionable in the cities. They were made of sturdy fabrics that wouldn't show dirt so easily, in colors and patterns more flattering to her Dhemlan coloring.

Just as Surreal had predicted, she found herself regarded as a _fashion-setter_. Women began imitating her short haircut and new clothes. When Sylvia grew her hair out again, others promptly followed suit.

She was horrified, but Saetan only laughed. Tugging on a dark curl, he said, "It's flattering they're trying to imitate your good taste, darling. But they'll never be as beautiful to me as you are."

Varushke became one of the most popular dressmakers in Kaeleer. Fashions for women began to shift to designs that were softer, less stiffly formal, even at Court. The skirt-pants were showing up everywhere as daytime wear.

Tonight she wore one of Varushke's newest designs, one which she knew Daemon had purchased as well, although in a different color to better suit Jaenelle's golden hair and sapphire-blue eyes. The outfit consisted of slim-cut black silk pants with a long, gown-length tunic worn over it. But the tunic was a slinky, whisper-soft silk in a subtle mix of orange and rust, slit all the way up to the hips on both sides. Styled with a high collarless neck and no sleeves, it was comfortable yet feminine.

The outfit beautifully showed off the ruby and beryl necklace Saetan had recently purchased for her from Banard, who considered the SaDiablos his most favored clients.

As a further concession, Sylvia wore dainty slippers with a small heel. With her hair upswept and held with jeweled pins, she looked every inch a Queen. She felt that way, too. Not just the strength of a Queen, but the beauty and charm of one.

When she looked across the room and saw those golden eyes smiling at her, she could swear she fell in love with him all over again, every time.

So all right, it was worth wearing the damned heels every evening.


	4. The Sadist

**Kaeleer, Dhemlan province, Amdarh**

**The Sadist**

He was in the study at the townhouse in Amdarh, working on business. Well, supposedly working. In reality he was waiting for Jaenelle to return from an afternoon at Surreal's townhouse a few miles away. Tonight they were going to the theatre.

There wasn't much paperwork, so he finished up quickly. Then Daemon got himself a brandy, and leaned back in his chair, just thinking.

The twenty-fifth anniversary of his father's wedding was coming up next week. All the Family was coming, all their friends invited. Mrs. Beale was busy with her planning and cooking. Helene, the housekeeper at the Hall, had hired additional staff to make sure every inch of the Hall was dusted, polished, and sparkling clean.

A little quiver fluttered his stomach at the reminder that it would be Jaenelle's fifty-fourth birthday coming up immediately after that.

_Half her lifetime was over._

But there was nothing he could do about it, for all his Black-Jeweled power and her own unique Twilight's Dawn Jewel.

Only...he had to fight back the feeling it wasn't fair. That it wasn't enough time, it would never be enough time, with _her._ His adored, beloved, beautiful wife, who was Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh.

Being long-lived was not always an advantage. Lucivar would have many more centuries with Marian. Saetan would too, with Sylvia.

But what would happen...later?

He'd never had the courage to ask his father. Sylvia was one of the long-lived races. But Saetan would still outlive her, as a Guardian.

Unless...unless his father chose to fade, without a wife to hold him here.

He had come damned close to it before, Witch had said. But surely, four children could hold him to the living twice as strongly as two had before.

His lips twitched as his stepmother's image rose up in his mind. Sylvia was a good match for his father. She might be only Sapphire-Jeweled, but she was every bit as stubborn as Saetan, and almost as hot-tempered as any Warlord Prince.

The two of them had built a warm, loving relationship...after a slightly rocky beginning and a few bumps along the way. It was easy for them to decide to split their time between the Keep and Sylvia's manor in Halaway. It would need to be enlarged and remodeled to accommodate a Warlord Prince and the necessary workshop for a Black Widow. But nothing that couldn't be accomplished in a few months' time.

It was not so easy when Saetan scowled in real displeasure after Sylvia appeared for dinner in her usual attire of casual pants and sturdy sandals. His growl was powerful enough to make the lamps rattle.

That made Sylvia's temper flare, and the two of them began an argument that swiftly escalated to make Daemon's hair stand on end.

An unwilling observer – his wife and siblings were visiting Jaenelle's sister and wouldn't be returning until tomorrow morning, damn their hides – he realized if somebody, namely him, didn't intercede soon, there might not _be_ a wedding. Taking a deep breath, he took advantage of a split-second pause in the exchange of insults to make a mild-mannered suggestion.

Daemon enjoyed business, more for the challenge and the risk involved than to make even more money than the Family already had. He was also very good at it. Always interested in something new, he had recently entered into a partnership different from anything he'd done before.

During one of their periodic visits to see friends, he had discovered a talented young dressmaker in Glacia's capital. She was looking for work, having lost her employment when a lightning-caused fire destroyed the shop she was apprenticed in. The owner had chosen to retire instead of rebuilding.

Struck by her unusual designs, he offered to back Varushke in a shop of her own, provided she relocated to a village closer to SaDiablo Hall. Excited by the prospect of having her own shop far sooner than she had hoped for, the dressmaker quickly agreed. He wanted the woman to design clothes for Jaenelle. But it might be even better if Sylvia could be convinced to give her a try.

Giving Sylvia his most charming smile – not that it ever seemed to have much effect on her, the termagant – Daemon suggested they see what Varushke could design for the Queen.

Reluctantly, she agreed – especially after he said to his father, _"Compromise, _Prince," in a warning tone, exactly as Saetan sounded when he'd said those same words to Gray, Jared Blaed, almost thirty years ago.

Just as he hoped it would, it defused that formidable temper. Saetan burst out laughing, and Sylvia was able to swallow her own hot words and calm down.

It was his own decision to speak with her about what it would mean to marry their father. Jaenelle approved, but warned him to be careful. "She loves him, but it isn't going to be easy to hear what you have to say. Be patient with her, Prince."

His father had smoothed the path for his marriage. He owed it to the man to return the favor, while appreciating the irony of it. Sometimes it was better to solve a problem before it actually arose.

There were a lot of things she didn't know about the man who was High Lord of Hell – things she deserved to know. Things that might make her think twice.

Perhaps even step back from Saetan Daemon SaDiablo.

But as much as that would hurt his father – who would not only be hurt but furious with his eldest son if he found out – Daemon wanted to be certain the Queen of Halaway had no doubts about bestowing her hand and heart in two months' time.

Because he was absolutely sure it would kill his father if he gave his much-battered heart again, only to someday have his wife turn away from him in fear, or worse, disgust, over something he had done centuries before.

He would do anything, even risk Saetan's lethal rage, to prevent that from happening.

When a man has lived for fifty thousand years, it takes a long time to talk about what he's done. Daemon was hoarse by the time he finished, although he had sipped a glass of wine as he spoke.

Sylvia listened, never saying a word until he was done. Then she thanked him for coming, and said she would think things over.

He spent the next three days in a cold sweat, wondering if he'd done something incredibly stupid that would cause Saetan _and_ Jaenelle to come down upon his head.

Then Sylvia had invited them all for dinner at her home. When she greeted them at the door, she was wearing a stylish gown and heels.

It shocked everyone, Saetan most of all, when she became pregnant with twins. Apparently Jaenelle's strengthening potions were more potent than even she thought. His family was delighted at the idea of more children. Sylvia's sons, who liked to call him Uncle Saetan, thought it was wonderful to see their mother so happy.

Jaenelle became pregnant for the third time soon after Sylvia, with their twins Karla and Kerin born just a few months after Bethani and Aidan.

But Jaenelle's was the more difficult delivery, lasting two full days and nights. Daemon had been absolutely terrified he would lose his wife, memories of that first shattering miscarriage still haunting him.

Lucivar tried to get him drunk so he would relax and calm down. But he'd been so anxious, so frightened, his body just burned up the alcohol without affecting him.

It was his father who called him to order. Handing Rhaymon over to Lucivar and Marian, Saetan hauled him off to his study. He told Daemon sharply to control himself, that his waves of anxiety were affecting everyone else, including Jaenelle. "Don't make this harder on her, Daemon. She'll be all right, but it often takes more time with two babes instead of one."

Saetan should know, since he'd just gone through this with Sylvia. Daemon stopped pacing, shuddering with the effort to control his emotions...but he managed it, just barely.

His father studied him, then Called in a small bottle. He poured a glass of wine, adding a measured amount from the bottle.

He held the glass out. "Drink this – all of it," he ordered.

Daemon took it reluctantly, but did as he was told. He was half-afraid it would put him into a sound sleep. But Saetan had precisely judged the amount needed to relax him just a little, ease his anxieties.

Then the High Lord sat down in a comfortable chair before the fireplace. "Come here, Daemon," he had said, indicating that his son should sit on the floor.

He sat, positioning himself next to Saetan's leg. Daemon stretched out his legs, letting the flames warm his feet. As the potion took effect he relaxed further, and his head came to rest against his father's leg. A hand stroked his head, smoothed his hair. Soothing warmth and reassurance flowed into him as his father wove gentle spells around his touch.

The ice in his gut slowly melted as Daemon found himself savoring this moment. Neither man spoke of the past that had robbed them of the chance for these simple expressions of love.

There was only the sounds of the fire, crackling as the logs burned hot.

Finally Daemon spoke.

"This is what love is, isn't it? Fear and happiness, all at the same time. Everyone likes to say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. But they aren't. I always thought love was something simple. Either you loved someone, or you don't. But it's different than hate. Hate is...direct, I guess. It's straightforward – even easy."

He twisted around to look up at his father's face, the face that had formed his. "But love isn't simple at all, is it?"

Saetan smiled at him with so much love and affection, it made Daemon blink fast to keep the tears back.

"You're right," the deep voice replied. "Love is never a simple, or easy, thing. And especially not for us, because of who we are."

His father bent forward with that feline, supple grace, to lightly kiss his hair. "But to love someone, and have them love you in return, is the finest feeling in life. And to be able to create a new life from the two of you, is the greatest gift you will ever receive. No matter what happens in the future, to you or to them."

Then Queen Gabrielle had burst into the room, yelling for them to come up and see Kerin, who had finally chosen to exit the womb.

It amused everyone to see the five children play – so close together in age, even though Bethani and Aidan were actually their uncle and aunt. Sometimes it was nerve-wracking – not even Jaenelle could watch five mischievous children at a time. But it did help having Scelties around to help guard the youngsters. Rhaymon was the most elusive, but no match for a Sceltie's four legs.

The children were growing up so fast. Rhaymon would probably make his Offering in the next year or so – he had something of his mother's precociousness, and Daemon wouldn't be surprised if his son came out carrying the Ebon-gray.

Smiling, he looked across the room to the large portrait his father had commissioned of him and Jaenelle seated together. She was twenty-nine at the time, just maturing into her full beauty.

Then his gaze slipped over to the wedding portrait of his father and stepmother that hung between the windows.

The smile faded.

"How do you do it?" he whispered. "How do you love someone when you know you'll only have to let them go too soon? Mother Night, it hurts worse than a wicked bitch. Love and pain, always mixed...always there. I don't know how you do it."

And he shoved the pain and fear down again, knowing that it would only return, bigger and darker and more threatening, as the years continued to count down for Witch and Jaenelle.


	5. The High Lord

**Kaeleer, Dhemlan province, Halaway**

**The High Lord**

Sometimes when he had a quiet moment to himself – not that it happened often any more – he wondered how he ended up in a life so different from what he had expected, or that anyone could have foreseen.

He'd done all the traditional things a Warlord Prince should do. He'd been a courtier, a lover, a Consort, a father, a friend, an enemy. But when he received that Black Jewel, life spiraled down a path no man had walked before.

As he looked back over the procession of endless, lonely centuries he had endured, and what his life was like now, it was as if he had somehow moved into a different body, a different life, without realizing he had faded into the Darkness and then out again.

He once had peace, of a sorts. Now he lived in what felt like barely controlled chaos.

He once was feared by all, avoided at any cost, by both the living and the dead. But now people frequently stopped by to chat and say hello, or drink a glass of wine with him...and most of them he was _happy _to see.

He had once thought to gradually fade from the Living Realms after fifty thousand years of solitude and painful memories.

Instead, he had adopted a daughter, reclaimed his two lost sons, then gotten married_._

_Married!_ To the woman he thought didn't exist.

A woman who liked him, trusted him, who _loved _him. Who held his heart, filling it with more happiness than he ever thought he would find. Of course, she was also infuriating, exasperating, stubborn, and argumentative...but those were all bound up in the same package, weren't they?

And then there was the joy, the wonder, the astonishment, the heart-stopping terror, of fathering two more children at a time when he was still baby-sitting his _grandchildren._

Andulvar would be laughing his head off if he could see him now.

And he, Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, the High Lord of Hell with all the rest of his damned titles, would deserve to be the butt of such ridicule.

He resisted the impulse to pull a certain box out of his desk drawer and look at it again. He had memorized the contents the last dozen or so times he had brought it out to stare it. It wasn't going to change into something else when he wasn't looking.

Hell's fire, why was he so nervous about a little gift? It wasn't as though she disliked his taste, and he certainly knew what she preferred, after all these years. But of course, he was nervous because this wasn't quite like anything he'd given her before. So there was no telling whether she _would_ like it or not.

The moment it was shown to him, his only thought was how beautiful she was going to look wearing it. So he purchased it on the spot, and only afterwards did it occur to him he hadn't even looked at anything else in the store.

"Why did I have to marry a woman who's happier if she gets a new pair of walking boots instead of rubies or silk gowns?" he muttered.

Then he caught a glimpse of his daughter walking up towards the house – the long, easy strides of a woman accustomed to outdoor exercise, healthy and vigorous and active.

And he remembered the terror, the uncertainty, the anguish, when too many times Jaenelle's body had broken down. The frail physical flesh that was unable to withstand the demands of her Ebon-black Jewels.

No, this was better. Peace, and the rebuilding of the Old Ways of the Blood, by an energetic young generation that would, hopefully, put to right some of the wrongs of the twisted past.

"Times change, SaDiablo, and you have to change with them," he murmured, as he watched his Bethani vanish around the corner. "Times change...sometimes for the better."

_Everything has its price._


	6. The Son

**Kaeleer, Dhemlan province, Halaway**

**The Son**

As children, he and his twin always loved their mother, who was energetic and active and fun, and of course, a Queen worthy of respect.

But their father...ah yes, they adored their father. Papa sang to them, told them wonderful stories, played with them, taught them, comforted them. He was a powerful Warlord Prince, more powerful than anyone else in all three Realms. He was the patriarch of the wealthy, powerful SaDiablo clan. Everybody in the family respected and loved him.

Because he was so wonderful, it puzzled them why so many people outside the Family were nervous and uneasy around their Papa.

It was years before Bethani and Aidan learned why. They were fifteen when Jaenelle told them about Zuulaman.

Even now it was hard to imagine the depths of such depravity. Killing her own babe – it had broken Saetan's heart, and thrown him into the Twisted Kingdom.

"Our Papa is a charming, intelligent, wonderful father. But he is also the High Lord of Hell, a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, one of the two strongest of his caste. Never forget that he – as well as Daemon and Lucivar – have each stood on the killing fields and been the only ones to walk off it.

"Papa has a better control over his temper than his sons do. But it's because he knows what he is capable of, that he holds himself back. When he destroyed Zuulaman, he destroyed the innocent as well as the guilty. He'll carry the burden of his actions forever."

For a moment she was quiet. Then she said, "His sons Mephis and Peyton were younger than you when this happened. They were the beacons which drew him back to the Living Realms. It's peaceful in the Twisted Kingdom, you see. When you're there, you know there's no pain, no fear, no hurt you can feel. It's hard to come back, to endure the weight of the flesh-and-blood body again."

It was no longer Jaenelle speaking to them, but Witch, with her sepulchral, midnight voice.

"_We are the Blood, and we are Power. Only conscience and compassion keep us from abusing others. Without those qualities, we become nothing more than jackals, reveling in the blood of innocents."_

Jaenelle knew what the Twisted Kingdom was like, for she had traveled its roads many times. Bethani and Aidan listened attentively, not only because they were taught to always respect the power of Witch, but because they, like everyone else, adored Jaenelle Angelline.

She was Witch, to whose glory they danced every year. She was the living myth, dreams made flesh. She was also their big sister, who was always willing to spend time with them and tell them fascinating stories about their relatives.

Their family had the _best _adventures. Oh, a lot of it must have been very unpleasant at the time, but it was so exciting to hear about Lucivar's visits with Shalador Nehele as it broke from Dena Nehele, or Jaenelle saving Aunt Karla's life after she was poisoned from witchblood, or Daemon executing a foolish woman who tried to harm his beloved wife.

There was Cousin Surreal's story of the spooky house she was trapped in, and Papa's story of his first visit to the Dark Realm, and...well, one could hear a different story every night for _years _and_ years,_ and never have one repeated.

Aidan was aware at an early age of the disadvantage being the youngest. Especially when one's brothers and stepbrothers were so much older. And on the SaDiablo side, famous and very, very feared. When one was a little boy, you might carry an awe-inspiring last name, but nobody was going to be afraid of a six-year-old.

Their father was feared by everyone. Deservedly so, but it wasn't like he went around drinking little children's blood or anything. The widespread ignorance about Guardians was upsetting, although the High Lord only shrugged.

It did help, the twins were told, when his parents began socializing more with others. Saetan Daemon SaDiablo had long isolated himself, so it was only natural, his mother explained, that rumors and misinformation had sprung up around him. If he was a Rose-Jeweled, or even Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord, probably nobody would have paid much attention.

But Father – it was satisfying to call him that now, because Aidan wasn't a child any longer – being who and what he was, that made him of interest to everybody, especially those who didn't know him.

It was...well, going to be awfully hard to live up to the reputations his family had. Their brothers were tall and strong and handsome, almost as feared as their father. Lucivar because he was the best Eyrien warrior alive, and Daemon because he was as powerful as Father but even more hot-tempered.

But Father said firmly this wasn't a contest, that he mustn't ever think he had to be the best or strongest or biggest.

He was always going to be loved because he was Aidan, somebody different than his brothers. He didn't need to be an imitation of his father, or his brothers, or anyone else.

"It's more important that you become a man who understands and lives by the Old Ways of the Blood. Who remembers what we have been, for good and for bad. So you can help create a future for the best of us, instead of celebrating the worst, as Dorothea and Hekatah tried to do."

Another disadvantage was because Father was old and very wise, and their brothers were also centuries old and very smart, it was impossible to get away with _anything_. No matter how he and Rhaymon had schemed, their parents always seemed to know what was going on, and would be there waiting for them to explain whatever the latest catastrophe or misadventure was.

Sometimes they didn't even make it home, but found their fathers standing wherever the children had started from, with arms folded and stern expressions.

That was if they were lucky. If they weren't, Lucivar found them first, dropping down out of the skies to scare the Darkness out of them.

It was only as they got older, they realized they had been _allowed_ to have those harebrained adventures. Bethani, who had tagged along on any number of them, grinned and said, "We have the best parents in the world. And the smartest, darn it."

She was right, as she almost always was.

Even Mama's sons from her first Consort – Beron, Tad and Mikal – thought Father was wonderful, calling him Uncle Saetan.

Beron was an artist. He hadn't told Mama for the longest time, but Father found out somehow. He arranged for Beron to have lessons from the best school in Kaeleer. Then he sponsored him, helping him meet people who wanted portraits done or paintings created. Beron received a generous allowance, so he could travel around the Realms, painting as he went.

Now Beron was famous, happily settled in Queen Sabrina's court in Dharo with his lover and life-partner.

Tad, adopted when his parents died in the Glacian attacks, was restless and energetic. Father had asked Daemon if Tad could work under contract to do area exploration for the Family businesses. Daemon organized a mapping group, headed by an experienced Warlord. Tad had already traveled to some of the furthest reaches of the Eastern territories.

Mikal, like Cousin Rhaymon, loved to do woodwork and crafts. He had apprenticed with Lord Burle, an elderly Tigers-eye Warlord in Dharo, who was Queen Cassidy's father. He was getting old but was still capable of teaching a man how to do fine work with every kind of wood. Father had gifted Mikal with a well-equipped workshop, where his stepbrother could often be found, sawing and sanding and hammering as he whistled fragments of old songs.

It was an advantage, definitely, to be growing up when the Realms were at peace with one another.

The Old Ways were returning to Terreille, as trust began to slowly rebuild between the Queens and the Warlords and Warlord Princes. It would take time, Father said, because so many of their traditions were destroyed, and so much knowledge was lost.

His older brothers had endured a horrible, terrifying life in the perverted Courts of Dorothea SaDiablo for _centuries._ They were tortured and taunted, believing themselves bastards of an unnamed father.

In contrast, he and his twin had grown up in a small, friendly village, with all the advantages of position and education.

Not that they hadn't learned the value of hard work. All of them went into service while still young. Their parents believed that work built discipline and taught a man or woman the value of service to others. The girls either worked on the farms or in household service where they weren't well-known. Ruthvian liked to say it was an eye-opening experience, listening to people talk about your family, not realizing you were one of the people they were gossiping about!

Aidan asked if he could train with the Eyriens, but realized quickly he was no match for any of that warrior race. He enjoyed the training, though, and it inadvertently led to a different idea entirely.

The tales told and re-told about the legendary Demon Prince and the war between Kaeleer and Terreille caught his interest. He realized that the verbal stories the Eyriens used was what they preferred, but still – wouldn't an audio crystal be helpful, to make sure no details were lost?

He noticed that some storytellers occasionally forgot small details, or would emphasize one aspect of a story to the detriment of another.

Because his family lived half the year at the Keep, he knew there were written recordings of all these events. But few people read them, except for scholars who came to visit. Not many people used audio crystals any longer. But Father had such a wonderful voice for telling stories. Aidan asked if he would read a few of the old Eyrien stories for recording. Father raised his brows, startled, but did it.

When Aidan brought them to the next training camp, it created a sensation. Warriors young and old crowded around to listen, and many asked if it was possible to have duplicate crystals made.

Pleased by his son's idea, the High Lord arranged with Geoffrey to have some other stories transcribed. Audio crystals began to be sold again in a few shops that catered to Eyriens.

Demand was high, so Daemon decided to put the idea onto a more business-like footing. The crystals would last a long time, possibly a century or more, but they would need eventual replacement. He asked his younger brother if he wanted to help with the crystal project, so Aidan spent almost a year working with Daemon, in addition to helping on a few other investments his brother had in progress.

It was interesting work, although he saw that he didn't have the flair for business Daemon had. Still, as his brother said, it was useful to understand what profit and loss meant, and how the family fortunes had fluctuated over time, as well as what they were based upon.

Again that led him back to his studies in history. What had happened to those businesses that once flourished in parts of Terreille, helped by Daemon Sadi's money, but then faded under Dorothea SaDiablo's rule?

How could this vicious Priestess not see that she was slowly strangling the financial lifeblood of an entire Realm?

Dorothea had tried hard to breed his brothers, but was unsuccessful. Without Saetan's powerful bloodline, the Queens and Warlord Princes in Terreille had become weaker Jewels with every generation, and might have possibly died out altogether within a few millennia.

The Whore Priestess had come close to achieving her goal of becoming the High Priestess of Terreille. But she would have ruled over a dying Realm...which meant Kaeleer would have been next, its riches beckoning the greedy bitch.

And then the most important question finally occurred to him – who _was_ Dorothea SaDiablo, when everyone had told him she wasn't related to them at all?


	7. The Witch

**Kaeleer, SaDiablo Hall**

**The Witch**

Jaenelle finished brushing her hair, then expertly pinned it up. Three jeweled pins held the coils firmly. She nodded, satisfied.

She wasn't fond of dressing formally, but this was a special occasion. And she didn't mind so much when Varushke could design evening wear that was comfortable yet still pretty.

Looking in the mirror, she added the necklace and earrings. They were a beautiful set of sapphires and heliodors set in rose gold. Daemon had given them to her as an early birthday present, so she could wear them to Papa and Sylvia's wedding anniversary celebration tonight.

_Dearest Papa. _Sylvia made him so happy, and the twins had been a wonderful surprise even to her. She was _hoping..._but even for Witch, there were no guarantees.

She glanced at the mirror again. Yes, she looked fine.

Older and aging...but fine.

It didn't feel as though almost forty years had passed since she woke up at the Keep, after a two-year sleep recovering from the rape at Briarwood. She could still remember looking at her changed body in the mirror. Small budding breasts, longer coltish legs. Assessing it, as the 'uncles' at Briarwood always did.

Witch had asked Saetan if he wanted to have sex with this body, and Saetan, High Lord of Hell, had almost fainted at the implication.

It was the affirmation she sought and needed, that life at the Keep with her adoptive father was going to be very different than the painful existence suffered at Belden Mor.

Robert Benedict had, briefly, upon his death, passed through Hell. Witch knew the High Lord had made him pay dearly all over again, and she smiled. It was a cold, wintry smile of satisfaction.

Then it faded, and Jaenelle stared again at the human face she wore. She supposed it could be called beautiful, in a way the child had never been. A little exotic, somehow. A slant to the eyes, the curve of her cheek, which had always marked her as different than Leland and Wilhemina.

She, Jaenelle, was aging. Daemon was not. It didn't bother her, but it _did_ bother him.

And so in the end, it bothered her as well, because what hurt her dearest love, pained her as well.

She was Witch, dreams made flesh, the living myth. She was born into a body that was not one of the long-lived races, unlike the man who believed he had been born to be her Consort.

Daemon was in his prime, a stunningly beautiful, exquisitely lethal Prince. He could live at least another three or four thousand years.

Already there were small wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, around her mouth. Soon white hairs would appear, and the wrinkles would deepen.

She grieved, not for herself, but for him. Not because of the loss of beauty or youth. But because he would be left alone, and she couldn't be sure he would be able to bear the loss.

She wanted to believe their darling children would keep him bound to the living. But it hadn't worked for his father, and she feared it wouldn't be enough for him, either.

Daemon didn't love many people. He had endured centuries of physical and emotional torture, turning part of himself into the Sadist to keep from going insane.

He had no choice but to keep himself isolated from others. Dorothea would use anyone he cared for as a weapon against him. Lucivar was always the coin she used to keep the Sadist caged, although fortunately she never found out about the others – Surreal, Jared, a few others scattered here and there.

Despite the Ring of Obedience, the Sadist had terrorized most of the Hayllian courts, until Dorothea sent him to Chaillot to get rid of him for a while. A man too dangerous to keep, but too alluring, too valuable, to kill.

And so Jaenelle, a child of eleven, had met Hayll's Whore, the pleasure slave Daemon Sadi.

Just as Daemon split himself into two people to survive, so had she. There was no safety for Witch in Alexandra's house, so she hid behind Jaenelle, the stupid, troublesome granddaughter full of fanciful delusions.

Being only a child, the masquerade had slipped a little too often, especially those times Wilhemina was threatened. The last time it happened, she wasn't even aware she was screaming at the men in the Old Tongue until Alexandra ordered her to drop the broken bottle she was threatening them with.

Jaenelle's lips pulled back in a snarl. She wouldn't drop it these days – but she'd rather use Craft to skin the bastards alive instead.

Sweet, dearest Wilhemina. This body had suffered much, but she saved her sister from being broken. Wilhemina wore the Sapphire, and she was happily married to a good man. Lyle was an Opal-Jeweled Warlord, and their children were almost grown now themselves.

Now, though, she could see how she had erred. Being more powerful than any man or woman ever born couldn't stop a child from being emotionally wounded, her protective instincts crippled by a lack of self-belief.

_I was so desperate to keep my sister safe. But I should have gone to Saetan and told him what I was afraid of. He asked me what was wrong, offered to shield me, but I turned him down. He would have protected her, _could_ have protected her, even from a distance. _

And if she had gone to Saetan then, Greer would never have raped her. And Daemon would never have to spend eight years in the Twisted Kingdom.

She had been too young to understand how greatly the High Lord was feared.

Ah, well. _Everything has its price._

She had paid heavily during that early time. But the succeeding years with her Papa were full of joyful discovery and laughter, learning to trust not just others but herself, the excitement and pain of bringing the Kindred back into open partnership with the Blood.

And the beauty, the uncertainty, the fear, the delight...the delirious, mind-numbing sexual ecstasy of Daemon Sadi as Consort and husband.

_But what would he do when she was gone?_

She was the most powerful, most skilled Black Widow in the Realms. But she hadn't dared to weave _that_ web yet.

For the first time in her life, Jaenelle Angelline feared the anwers she might see there.


	8. The Queen's Son Pt 1

**Kaeleer, Dharo Territory, city of Bunta**

**The Queen's Son, Part 1**

"Aren't you ready yet?" he called out.

"Almost!" There was a grumbling noise accompanying the words. Something like, _nag, nag, nag, nag._

Beron cast his eyes up but refrained from an exasperated retort. He took a last look around automatically as he vanished his bag. Years of traveling across the Realms had accustomed him to pack lightly and move quickly.

Rainier, however, had never lived a wanderer's life. When he packed, he packed _everything._ Beron had learned from experience not to let Rainier pack for the both of them.

His beloved meant well, but he just didn't seem to understand the idea of taking only the essentials.

Rainier was from a modest noble family who were secretly relieved when he left Amdarh and moved to Dharo. They had never known quite what to do with him. He was the first dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince to come from their bloodline.

And the fact that he preferred men to women hadn't pleased his parents overmuch, either.

They were on their way to SaDiablo Hall for the upcoming celebration. Both were looking forward to seeing Surreal and Butler again. She and Rainier had been good friends for decades. One wouldn't think someone as smooth and sophisticated as Rainier, an Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince who had been part of the Dark Court's Second Circle, would become close friends with the notorious Surreal.

Surreal SaDiablo was of dual bloodline, Dea al Mon and Hayllian. Lovely but lethally dangerous, she was a former whore and assassin, who was well-known for being one of the best at _both _occupations. She was also a Gray-Jeweled witch, which taken in whole, meant she was a good person to stay far away from.

He gave a snort of laughter. Hell's fire, 'scary' could describe _all_ the SaDiablos! Well, maybe not Lady Marian, who was a charming hearth witch. But the males were all lethal Warlord Princes wearing the Darker jewels.

As Beron patiently waited in the hall, his mind wandered back to that memorable, life-changing event – his first meeting with the High Lord. If the younger SaDiablos made an impression, the only way to describe Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, the patriarch and first Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in the Blood's long history, was a man who made an_ impact_ – a very large one.

Mother Night, he thought as he mentally counted the years that had flown past. If this was the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, then that made it...twenty-seven years since he first met the High Lord of Hell!

Sweet Darkness, so much had happened over those years.

As a youngster, Beron remembered grumbling and groaning at Prince Yaslana's insistence that everyone at the Hall and village, even the servants, learn the fighting arts.

He had already left to join Queen Karla's court in Glacia – now there was a _really_ scary woman – when Surreal and Daemon first came to Kaeleer.

Then came the attack on the palace and Karla being poisoned, all part of a well-coordinated plan instigated by Terreille upon Kaeleer. That day in Glacia he learned to be grateful for those exhausting morning drills. He wouldn't have lived to see his next birthday otherwise.

Once the Witchstorm passed, he took his Queen's advice to not to renew his contract, but go and figure out what he really wanted to do with his life. He took his time getting home, but finally arrived in Halaway a year later, in time for his twenty-third birthday.

His mother was glad to see him, and it was wonderful to see how his brothers had grown. Still, he was a grown man now, a Purple-Dusk Warlord, and he didn't want to live at home with his mother.

"So what do you want to do?" she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to tell her. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but the years in Glacia had crystallized his doubts.

"Queen Karla was very kind to me," he said carefully. "After a while – I told her there was something I'd wanted to do for a long time but never had. She encouraged me to try, and I—I found I did like it. That I wanted to do more of it." Beron took a deep breath.

His mother blinked. "Beron, I want you to do whatever you're interested in, no matter what it is," she protested. "But my dear boy, what exactly is _it?"_

"Painting, Mother. I'd like to become an artist." There, it was out. He felt as if he'd let something escape from inside him, something fluttering and stomach-churning, yet exciting and hopeful.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and his heart stopped. Then she said, half-laughing, half-crying, "Beron! Is that _all? _You foolish boy, of course you could become a fine artist! You used to draw all over every scrap of paper in the house! But you never said anything about it after a while, so I thought it was just something you'd lost interest in."

Relieved beyond words, he hugged her back as she embraced him. "It's not—I mean, I _should_ have told you, I guess. But Father wasn't very encouraging when I talked to him about it last year. He said it was a waste of time, I should concentrate instead upon finding another Court and try to become a Consort, because that's the easy way to gain money and status. But I don't _care_ about those things, Mother."

She sniffed back her tears, shaking her head. "It's all right, Beron. There are more important things in life than Court life, no matter what others think. Your father puts a high value on being part of Society, that's all, while I don't. It's just a difference of opinion." She stepped back and sat down in a chair. "Do you have a plan, then?"

A little ashamed, Beron shook his head. "I didn't – I wasn't sure you'd think it was all right. I was thinking I'd like to go to Amdarh to study. It isn't so far that I couldn't visit Halaway occasionally. And there are some good instructors there, if I can get an audience with one of them."

She smiled. "That sounds like a plan to me. I'll talk to my manager and set up a living allowance for you to draw upon."

Beron shook his head. "No, Mother. That won't be necessary. I was very careful with my expenses in Glacia. I've saved a good sum of money, and I can support myself." _I hope so, anyway. _"But I'm grateful for the offer, truly."

He went to Amdarh with her blessing and Karla's recommendation letter. His hopes were dashed, however, when he found that one of the instructors he'd been told to talk to was dead, and the second one had moved back to Terreille.

There were two others, but one had as many students as he was willing to take on. He discovered the fourth instructor wasn't well regarded, so Beron decided it wouldn't be worth spending his limited funds on lessons that wouldn't amount to much help.

But he quickly found decent lodgings for cheap. And he liked being in the city again. Glacia was full of magnificent scenery everywhere one looked, but Hell's fire, eight months out of twelve that Province was colder than the Whore Priestess's heart!

Unfortunately Queen Karla's letter, which he thought might gain him at least an introduction, didn't have the value he hoped for. She wasn't known as an art patron. Glacia was too far away, and Halaway just a village, so he lacked the right connections to get accepted into the only prestigious art school in Kaeleer, although he dutifully filled out an application form and mailed it off.

The Academy was small and select. They never had more than twenty students at any time. Everyone with the least bit of artistic talent tried every way possible to get admitted there. Its reputation was known even in Terreille, although it had only been open for a little more than a decade's time.

It was the only art school which supported their students, giving them free room and board. Which, of course, guaranteed there would always be more people trying to get into the school than could be admitted.

Even the waiting lists were full. He was told it was a four-year wait, which was discouraging news. He had known it wasn't likely he could get accepted. Still, it wasn't the only way to become an artist, so he kept his hopes up and tried to stay busy.

Amdarh did offer a good art museum and several interesting galleries, all of which he visited on a regular schedule. Carrying his sketchpad, he would closely analyze one artist's work, or a style of painting. Then he would stop by the library to find one or two books to study, that would tell him more about what he was looking at. Finally, he would go into one of the parks with his sketchpad, to depict what was around him using that style or artist's technique.

He thought it was good practice. But after a few months, he wondered if he was really getting anywhere. He had managed to meet some people, but they were either students younger than himself who eyed him with curiosity, or jaded elders who waved him off, uninterested in what they saw as a courtier's fickle interest, which would wane and turn to something else in a few months.

It was frustrating because he was sure his interest _wouldn't_ fade. But he didn't know what else to do except to keep on a program of self-study and try to build the connections he needed.

He had saved as much he could, but it wasn't enough to go anywhere far away or expensive like Hayll, where the best museums and instructors were. As the weeks passed, Beron began to wonder if he should take his father's advice and give it up.

Then one evening there was a knock on at his door. "From the High Lord, Prince Saetan Daemon SaDiablo," the messenger droned as he extended a tray with an envelope on it.

Shocked, Beron stared at him with his mouth open. The man looked back with bored eyes, still holding the tray out.

Taking it as gingerly as if it might explode and blow his fingers off, he opened it. In beautiful old-fashioned calligraphy on expensive thick notepaper, he was being invited to join the High Lord for dinner.

Beron swallowed, feeling suddenly light-headed, as if all the blood had just drained out...no, no, he didn't want to think like that.

He mumbled something which the messenger apparently took as acquiescence, leaving him still standing there in his doorway, blinking dazedly. It took him several moments to collect his wits and shut the door.

Then he sat down in his only chair, to read and re-read the invitation again.

_The High Lord wanted to have dinner with him?_

He hadn't known until now that the High Lord was aware he even _existed._

Maybe he was going to _be_ dinner?

"Mother Night, Beron Jahn Darwell, stop being an idiot," he muttered to himself. " He's the head of the SaDiablos. Mother's village exists because of the Hall! She probably mentioned to them I was here, and the High Lord's just being polite while he's here."

Not that he'd ever heard the High Lord bothered much with social niceties to his lessers...which was just about everyone, he supposed.

It was a weak explanation, but the only one he could come up with. He certainly couldn't refuse the invitation. And he couldn't deny it would be nice to enjoy an expensive dinner for free, after an endless routine of cheap tavern food and street seller pasties.

During the intervening two days he tried to recall everything he knew about the High Lord, which wasn't all that much, really.

The High Lord had taught Protocol lessons to all of the Dark Court's coven and courtiers. And based on what he saw at Queen Karla's court, he had taught them thoroughly indeed. He was very old – fifty thousand years, an unimaginable length of time to Beron. He was originally from Hayll, in Terreille. He was wealthy, and more powerful than everyone except for Witch herself, holding an imposing list of titles, some of which no one else had ever received, before or since.

Few people saw him in the flesh, so to speak, even in Halaway. He spent most of his time at the Keep at Ebon Askavi, or occasionally visited his sons Prince Sadi and Prince Yaslana.

Beron fervently hoped there would be other guests, because he couldn't imagine what he could find to say to the High Lord for an entire evening.

_Yes, High Lord, I'm a Purple-Dusk Warlord from the local village, who was a lowly Fifth Circle courtier in a remote court. No, I didn't distinguish myself in any way, except to not get killed when Lord Hobart attacked Glacia's palace. No, I'm not doing anything important these days, except for trying to be an artist. _

He winced, then squared his shoulders. He was what he was, and he wasn't ashamed of it. And this might be interesting – a chance to meet someone famous, legendary in fact, to see what the man behind the rank and power was like.

Halfway through dressing, he began laughing helplessly. Hell's fire, he was wearing his best clothes, taken a bath and had gotten a haircut. It was as if he was going out to dine with his _mother._

Oh, no. Saetan Daemon SaDiablo was much more terrifying. But the laughter helped bolster his courage. Otherwise, he might have had to resort to whiskey or brandy to have the guts to step outside and hail a cab.

_Drunk and scared – not the way to make a good impression on a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who could explode my brains with a single thought._

Although he wasn't thinking of how to make a good impression on the High Lord. He was just hoping to get through the evening without making a fool of himself, or getting killed on the spot.

He showed up a quarter-hour early at the exclusive dining house Prince SaDiablo had selected.

When the High Lord arrived precisely on time, the staff practically groveled at his feet. He gave them a nod, then walked forward to extend a hand to Beron, who had jumped up from the bench he was sitting on.

"You must be Beron. I'm the High Lord. Your mother asked me to call on you while I was in town. She sends you her greetings, as do your brothers."

The voice was deep, with a seductive edge. Beron was struck by the strong resemblance Prince Sadi had to his father. Sadi, always seen from a distance, was terrifyingly beautiful, a cold dark statue hiding even colder Dark power.

Beron had heard general descriptions, but he'd never seen the High Lord in person. Saetan Daemon SaDiablo was handsome instead of beautiful, but father and son did look much alike. He was perhaps two inches shorter, but trim and fit although he had a slight limp and used a cane. The man had aged well, with white hair at the temples which drew attention to large gold eyes and thick lashes.

There were lines on his face, ones Beron sensed were as much from pain as from laughter. But they only emphasized the perfect bones, the _character_ of the man, that made up one of the most fascinating faces Beron had ever seen.

"I'm honored to meet you, High Lord." Beron bowed, finally grateful for the long boring etiquette lessons of his youth. "And I must thank you for taking the time to do a favor for my mother. I write to her regularly, but I suppose she worries."

The High Lord chuckled. "Parents do that, boyo. And no matter how old you get, they always will. I suggest we go in – it's hard for me to stand for very long with this leg."

He _was _the only guest, but discovered he needn't have worried.

Under the mellowing influence of good wine and delicious food, Beron found himself talking about himself more than he should. But the man was such a good listener. And it was nice to talk to an older male for a change, who at least had the courtesy to look interested in what Beron was saying. His host could speak knowledgeably about a wide variety of topics. Art, history, philosophy, music – the High Lord of whom everybody was so frightened, was a delightful companion who was literate, cultured, and educated.

He didn't fool himself that they were going to be friends or anything. And he would _never_ underestimate how dangerous a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince could be. It was just that the Prince of the Darkness was so much more interesting, and unexpectedly kinder, than he could have imagined.

"Dessert, High Lord?" asked a waiter as he bowed, holding a silver tray.

The High Lord shook his head. "Not for me. Beron, if you would like anything, please go ahead. Young men tend to have good appetites, and you didn't eat that much."

Beron had eaten more than enough – maybe his stomach had shrunk after months of plain food – but the dessert tray held a honey-glazed custard. He hesitated, then surrendered to temptation and selected it.

One spoonful and he closed his eyes, it was so good. Oh, he'd missed this, his favorite dessert!

A glance at the High Lord had him blushing. "I haven't had this in a long time," he excused his foolishness. "They don't make it in Glacia."

"No, they don't. They make a frozen cream, I believe."

"Yes, they do. It's good, but I've always been fond of this. My mother makes it very well. I used to always ask for it on my birthday," Beron confessed, embarrassed.

There was amusement in the gold eyes, but his tone was kind. "I believe your brother Mikal, like my son Daemon, prefers nutcakes."

Beron laughed, startled. "That's right, you know Mikal well! I couldn't help being surprised at how much he had grown since I was away. But I guess some things, like hungry little boys, don't change."

"A few things don't. Most do." Saetan flicked a glance at the waiter, who promptly offered coffee and a second round with the dessert tray.

Beron refused another sweet, but did accept a coffee. He was tempted to ask for a lacing of brandy in it, but thought better at the last second. It had been a delightful evening, but he had drunk enough wine, and didn't want to risk imbibing too much and spoiling it.

"So how much longer do you plan to stay in Amdarh?" the High Lord asked, taking a sip of yarbarah. "It sounds as if you've worked hard at this self-study plan over these last few months."

Beron sighed. "I don't know. Not much longer, I guess. I was hoping to find a teacher, but that didn't work out. I think there's only so much one can do on one's own. I do have some funds left, but I'll need to apply to one of the art schools and still have enough to live on. So I was thinking I should apply for another Court position. That way I can save up some more money. And maybe I'll find someone who can make an introduction for me, or at least point me in the right direction."

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should...then decided to risk it. The High Lord didn't seem to be the type who would feel insulted, and the worst he could say to Beron was no.

"High Lord? May I ask a favor?"

The air turned slightly cooler, but the older man nodded. A graceful gesture of his fingers gave Beron permission to speak.

"Which do you think would be better – should I apply to one of the courts in Terreille, or stay in Kaeleer instead?"

Dark brows shot up; the question apparently surprised him. The High Lord took a few moments before speaking. Then he asked, "Why do you wish to go to Terreille? Life's gotten difficult there nowadays, from what we've heard."

"Well, I don't really want to," Beron confessed. "But the museums and galleries in Hayll are famous, and I thought perhaps I could find someone who could help – I mean, advise me. The trouble is, I don't know anyone who's an artist or an art patron, so I don't have anyone to talk to about what I'm doing. This evening's been wonderful, sir – I've enjoyed myself so much. It's made me realize I might be going about this all wrong. But it was all I could think of to do. Maybe if there was someone I could ask questions of, on a regular basis, or—or just exchange ideas with...perhaps I'd get somewhere. Or at least," he amended self-consciously, "figure out if I _am_ going somewhere, instead of just chasing my tail in circles."

Looking at the expressionless face, he felt his cheeks redden again. Hell's fire, he must sound like an idiot!

Before he could make his apologies and slink away from the table, the High Lord said thoughtfully, "I'm surprised you haven't applied to the Trevanis Art Academy. Have you thought about going there? It's the best school, or so I'm told."

Beron shook his head. "I applied, but they don't take very many new students each year. Only those who have a good portfolio and at least two recommendation letters are accepted. I only have one letter, so it wasn't good enough."

The High Lord accepted a fresh ravensglass of warmed yarbarah from the waiter. "Oh? Who was it from?" he asked idly.

"Queen Karla." Beron sighed. "But she's not known as a serious art patron, I discovered, so most of the schools were only willing to put me on a waiting list. Trevanis refused me, so I have to go somewhere else."

The air cooled further; Beron suppressed a shiver. The deep voice, too, had cooled. "Queen Karla's recommendation should hold more weight, I would think."

"Well, it was kind of her to give me one at all. I mean, I was only Fifth Circle," Beron explained. "But you see, everybody who applies has recommendation letters. From family friends and casual acquaintances, mostly. So the schools have to try to winnow out the ones who haven't impressed someone who really knows something about art, and isn't just recommending someone because they're the son of their favorite cousin, or somebody they owe a favor to."

The air warmed a trifle. "Ah, I see," said the High Lord politely. "Yes, I suppose that makes sense, then."

Beron realized he'd asked a question, but not gotten an answer. "So – do you think I'd have better luck emigrating to Terreille? My father is in Pruul, and he's a Consort now. He doesn't approve of what I'm doing, but if I tell him I want to contract myself to another Court, I'm sure he'd help me. I mean, it's a risk going so far away, but it could be worth it. It's just...I don't know if it really is worth the risk, or if I'm just fooling myself about being talented enough to make a living off my art."

There was a glint in those eyes. "Do _you _think you're talented enough to be a success?"

Beron drew in a breath. "I suppose you'll think I'm a conceited puppy, but...yes, I do." Then he wilted a little. "But without good training, I know it's going to be a struggle. I put it off for so long, I'm far behind other students. But I did try the traditional path and discovered it wasn't enough for me. So I'll continue to try to become an artist, at least until someone proves to me that I'm _not_ talented enough."

He managed a grin at the High Lord, who smiled back. There was a glimmer of warmth in the gold eyes again, making Beron grateful he hadn't made a complete fool of himself.


	9. The Queen's Son Pt 2

**Kaeleer, Dharo Territory, city of Bunta**

**The Queen's Son, Part 2**

The bill was paid, and he took a polite leave of his host. He took a cab back to his lodgings, instead of walking. But it was a long way and the wine made him a little tired.

It wasn't until Beron was cleaning his teeth that he realized he had never gotten an answer to his question.

Ah, well. The High Lord had such seductive, easy charm, along with so much social polish that the younger man could only admire the ease with which the man could avoid a question he didn't want to answer. The High Lord seemed so..._human._ An odd thing to say about a Guardian, but then he'd never met any other except for the Keep's Librarian, who had made a much younger Beron feel inexplicably tongue-tied.

And this was his own decision, wasn't it? No one else could make it for him, so it wasn't right to be asking somebody else what he should do. No doubt a man as brilliant as the High Lord knew that, and so took a tactful way to remind Beron that he must make his own decisions about what path to follow.

But he did hope that some day he might find someone who might be more than just a lover. Someone he could talk with, the way the High Lord had talked with him last night...umm, maybe not _quite _like that formidable man.

Someone who loved art and music as much as he did. Or at least knew something about them, other than what was currently fashionable.

Beron sighed and picked up his pad. It had been fun last night, but he had to get back to his studies. He had come to a decision, though. He would give it another two years – one year to work and save some more money, and then a year at a decent school to see how he did.

He chose oil chalks this time. He began outlining the scene outside his window. He noted that he was making some progress, at least – he was much quicker to rough out the scene than before. And he thought he had done a good job this time capturing the expressive lines of the gesturing shopkeeper as he haggled with a buyer. Tearing off that page, he dated it and slid it in back of the other pages. Then he began to idly draw a face.

It was only as he picked up a light brown stick to add tone to the drawing that he realized he'd drawn the High Lord.

He loved portraiture. It intrigued him how people's faces changed from moment to moment, as the light changed, as their expressions varied. It was a crowded field, artistically speaking, which was why he was having such trouble breaking into it. But studying the drawing, he did think he'd captured a certain essence of the Prince, and that lifted his spirits.

Smiling, he dated it and added it to the other loose sheets tucked in the back. For a moment he toyed with the idea of sending it to the High Lord with a thank-you note, then he scolded himself.

Talk about presumption! The High Lord could afford any artist in the Realms. If he wanted a portrait of himself, he could commission one from Keldaar, who was the most fashionable portrait artist now that Dujae had Faded. Not that Beron especially liked Keldaar's work. He admired Dujae much more, although it was said that Dujae's greatest works were hidden away at the Keep and at SaDiablo Hall, where few were allowed to see them.

Still, it was a good reminder about his manners. Beron took a few minutes to write a formal thank-you message for last night. He thought about sending it to the Keep, then remembered the High Lord had mentioned he was staying at the SaDiablo townhouse for a few more days.

The townhouse was on the way to the bootmaker and bookshop, both of which he needed to visit today. He could drop the note off after he did his errands, have a late lunch, then go on to the park to spend a few hours in drawing practice.

People often stop to watch over one's shoulder, so it didn't bother him to sense yet another observer behind his left. He continued to sketch the little girl playing with her brother on the swings, intent upon capturing the exuberant joy, that excited laughter. It was getting late, anyway. Everyone would be going home soon and he'd have to stop.

It wasn't until a deep voice said, "Not bad, boyo," that he realized it was the High Lord of Hell standing behind him, leaning on his cane.

"Oh! Sir—I mean, High Lord!" _Shit. _Beron had jumped a foot out of his own skin when that distinctive voice had come out of nowhere.

Flustered, he realized his hands were filthy with oil chalk, which meant he couldn't shake hands. Grabbing for a cloth to wipe his right hand, he dropped his sketchpad, but ignored it as it fell to the ground. Hastily he scrubbed his fingers, then extended his hand in belated greeting.

"High Lord," he managed a bow, even though his face felt aflame. "I—I wasn't expecting to see you. It's a pleasure to see you again." _Or would be, if I weren't as grubby as Mikal when he plays in the dirt. _"I'd like to thank you again for dinner last night. I left a note with your butler, so you might have read it already. Anyway, I had a wonderful time. You were an amazing host." _Stop babbling, you idiot._

Prince SaDiablo, High Lord of Hell and Prince of the Darkness, nodded, touching Beron's hand lightly and then dropping his fingers again. His gaze flicked over the young man, from head to toe.

And continued to stare at his boots.

Confused, Beron looked downwards. To his horror, several loose pages had fluttered free of his pad when it had fallen – and one of them was the partially-revealed sketch of the High Lord.

He had to make a choice on the instant.

Pretend nothing happened, gather his things, then make his apologies as quickly as possible, while hoping that a blast of Black-Jeweled power didn't fry him to a crisp as soon as his back was turned.

Or, apologize profusely, tear the sketch up into little pieces on the spot, and promise never to draw anything again.

Hands shaking, Beron knelt to pick up the incriminating evidence. As he rose, the High Lord extended his hand, not saying a word. He handed them over, swallowing hard.

The High Lord looked at the sketch of himself. Something, some emotion, flitted across his face, too quickly for Beron to identify. Impassive again, he looked through the half-dozen drawings from the past two days. Then he went back to study his portrait again. Still no expression, no words.

Finally he looked up at Beron. "You're good, boyo. Better than I thought you would be."

It took a moment for his words to sink in...but when they did, Beron felt the ground heave up beneath him and then sink again.

"You – you _liked_ it? I mean...Mother Night, High Lord, I'm sorry—" the tumble of words was stopped by a slender raised hand.

"I like all of them, although I'd say you're better at people than at landscapes," said the High Lord coolly. "You do need training, that's obvious. Your perspective is off, and although you're not bad at capturing the moment, you lack the technique to interpret details. Those will make the difference between a good piece of art and a great one."

He handed it all back to Beron, who took the papers as if they might break. "Thank you_,_ High Lord!" he stammered, the realization finally hitting him that he'd been given praise – of a sort – from someone who _did_ know his art. "I'll—I'll study harder, I promise I will. Did you—do you want to keep your portrait?"

A smile twisted those chiseled lips, and Beron flushed. Hurriedly he added, "I know it's not great art, but I thought about sending it to you with my note this morning, just in case...I mean, I didn't want you to think I would publish it or anything."

"That hadn't occurred to me," the older man said, although Saetan realized it should have.

"Thank you," he told Beron. "I would like to keep it, yes."

The High Lord left to take a cab to an appointment with his man of business. Beron practically ran back to his lodgings, breathless with an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment, excitement, and anxiety churning his insides.

He had _liked_ the drawing. He said Beron had talent at drawing people, more than expected. And the High Lord _knew_ his art, knew so many famous artists, even Dujae.

Dropping into his chair, panting, Beron gulped down a glass of ale to calm himself. Mother Night, he'd never dreamt of anything so exciting! That the High Lord thought it was worthwhile for him to get more training was the best news he'd ever had!

But where could he _get _that training?

He clenched his fists. He would get it somehow, he wouldn't give up. Not when he'd finally been encouraged by someone whose opinion was valuable.

Four days later he was still trying to decide if he should pack up and move to Terreille, when he received another letter. This one had the logo of the Trevanis Arts Academy. His first thought was that they had reconsidered their refusal and agreed to put him on their waiting list. Excited by the idea, he ripped open and read the short letter.

Stunned, almost unable to comprehend the words, he read them again. And again, for the third time.

They were _admitting _him as a student. Starting the very next semester!

But..._why?_

It didn't make any sense, Beron realized as his excitement faded. He didn't have any better credentials, or better references, than he'd had four months ago when he sent in his original application.

The only thing that changed was he had a little more practice, a bit more knowledge.

_And had given a sketch to the High Lord of Hell._

Hell's Fire, Mother Night, and the Darkness be merciful. Surely the High Lord hadn't—

But if he _had..._no one, not even the select Trevanis Arts Academy, was going to ignore a request from Prince Saetan Daemon SaDiablo.

A smile touched Beron's mouth as he looked back at that excited, nervous twenty-three-year-old former self.

Saetan _had _contacted the admissions committee at Trevanis on his behalf. No one outside the Family knew, but Saetan was the original founder of the school. He had started it years ago, dissatisfied with the current state of art instruction in Kaeleer.

Studying at Trevanis changed his life. Beron could ask all the questions he wished, and there were people here who would happily answer them. Everyone was doing creative, interesting things, and the exchange of ideas was everything an apprentice artist could want. He could draw for hours, and be encouraged to continue.

And then he met the man he would lose his heart to.

When he returned to Halaway for his mother's wedding a year later, Beron was introduced to Lord Rainier. He was a handsome man, with green eyes and brown hair. He limped a little, the result of a serious injury he had received when a madman tried to kill some of the SaDiablos. Rainier still retained a dancer's grace, although there were some dances he couldn't do any longer, with the limp. Beron was told that Lord Rainier and Lady Surreal worked for Prince Sadi, traveling around the Realms and trouble-shooting for him.

"Now that must be an interesting job!" Beron observed. Everyone around him laughed.

"It is," smiled Rainier. "And not _too _dangerous. No spooky houses, anyway."

Surreal grinned, but it was a scary feral grin. Beron couldn't imagine anyone getting into bed with this woman unless she swore on her Jewels she wasn't going to murder you afterwards. She fit in well with her SaDiablo cousins!

"How are your classes coming, Beron?" Lady Angelline asked kindly. "Have you decided on your final year project yet?"

He shook his head. "I have a few ideas, but I need to pick one. I thought I'd ask the High Lord for advice, but I believe," he glanced across the room at the newly married couple with a smile, "he's got his mind on other things besides art."

Everyone laughed again, even Prince Sadi, who was breathtakingly beautiful in a black suit with a gold silk shirt.

Then Beron got the shock of his life when Rainier asked Sadi to dance.

And Sadi said _yes!_

He couldn't help glancing over at Sadi's wife, Lady Angelline. But she was grinning, clapping her hands as though she was looking forward to the sight of her devoted husband dancing with _another man!_

Sensing someone coming up on his left, Beron found his mother and the High Lo—Uncle Saetan, rather; standing beside them.

"Oh, good," said his mother, sounding pleased. "Did you convince Daemon to dance, Jaenelle? I was hoping to see him and Rainier dance again. They're so perfectly matched on the dance floor."

Beron managed to keep his jaw from hitting the ground, but it wasn't easy. His _mother_ wanted to see two men dance together? One of whom was married to _Witch?_

Then the music started.

And for the first time, he saw why Prince Sadi was also called the Sadist. His father had given Sadi that seductive feline grace. But in the Hi—Uncle Saetan, it was not exactly muted, but more low-key. Like breathing, it was simply a part of him.

The Sadist, however, used his seductiveness like a weapon. A twisted, terrifying sword of sensual flame. To first heat a person's blood...and then burn them to ashes.

_Come into my web,_ the Black Widow whispered._ And I shall show you the greatest pleasures you have ever known._

_And then I will kill you. _

_And you will die screaming._

The dance ended and the two men walked off the floor, still arm in arm. Sadi was smiling. Rainier was smiling as well but there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"My lady?" Sadi bowed to his wife, extending his arm in a courtly gesture. "Our waltz, I believe."

Lady Angelline stopped to give Lord Rainier a kiss on the cheek. "Poor darling," she said with a smile. "You're a sweetheart, Rainier, to indulge Daemon in his love for dancing. I'm sorry I can't share him, though."

Lord Rainier chuckled, seemingly recovered from that Dark dance. "My Lady, you're the one who's kind enough not to mind the sight of your husband dancing with another man. And seeing as how you're also the Healer who put me back together enough to dance at all, I believe the debt will be all on my side for the rest of my life."

Then Saetan and his mother excused themselves with a smile to join the other couples on the dance floor. Lord Rainier was left with Beron.

"Do you like to dance, Beron?" Rainier asked politely. "I'd ask you to waltz, but if it would upset you to dance with a man, it's not a problem. We can stand here and exchange social chit-chat, if you prefer. Not everyone is like Prince Sadi."

That was such an understatement, Beron choked on a laugh. "I do like to dance, but if you don't mind, I think I'd like to just watch this one and recover my breath. Mother Night, I can't imagine how you had the courage to dance with that man! I've never seen anything like what you two did on the dance floor. I think I would wet myself if he even touched my hand. Now I don't know who scares me more, Sadi or his father."

Rainier grinned. "Terrifying, isn't he? But so beautiful a man. And that dance was mild compared to what he can really do." The Warlord Prince sighed. "But Witch got him first, and she's everything to him. No one means to him what she does."

Beron watched as Sadi and Uncle Saetan exchanged a look of affection across the room as they whirled past one another with their wives. "He loves his father, though. And Uncle Saetan loves his children. He shows it, too." There was a hint of wistfulness in Beron's voice that made Rainier glance at him.

"So you're an artist," he said, tactfully changing the subject.

Beron demurred, saying, "Well, I'm _trying_ to become an artist. Right now I'm just another student at Trevanis, about to start my final year."

"You're at the Academy?" Rainier's eyebrows rose. "Then you _are_ an artist. Not many are allowed into that school, and all who do are talented."

"It's kind of you to say so," Beron answered. "However, I've always had the sad suspicion that the only reason I got in was because I did a sketch of the High Lord once, and he liked it. Or said he did, anyway."

Rainier blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Smiling, Beron explained their first meeting, and the subsequent meeting in the park when he gave his sketch to the High Lord. "I mean, he's always refused to say he did anything, but he doesn't say that he _didn't,_ either. And you must admit it's obvious he must have done something, when the Academy had turned my application down, only to reverse themselves and admit me at the last minute, three days after I gave him a drawing."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Rainier interrupted him. "Did you – are _you_ the one who drew that oil chalk picture of the High Lord? The one that's in Sadi's study?"

"Oh, is that where it is?" Beron was surprised. "I didn't know what the High Lord – I mean Uncle Saetan – did with it. It wasn't very good, just a quick sketch I did. I wasn't actually sure if he liked it, or was going to tear it up when he got back home. Someday I'd love to do a formal portrait of him, I admit. Maybe with his sons. They have such interesting faces, don't they? Like different facets of the same dark Jewel."

"Now _that,"_ Rainier declared, "is the statement of an artist. I don't think I've ever heard anyone describe the SaDiablo men so perfectly as you just did. And by the way, that is an amazing likeness of the High Lord. Daemon and Jaenelle both treasure it."

It was a thrill for Beron to hear those compliments. The two men continued to talk. They did dance together later that evening. It was fun, along with the excitement of daring because Beron had never publicly acknowledged before his sexual preference.

They didn't become lovers right away. But they would stop to talk or have a coffee whenever they met in Halaway, when he was visiting his family and Rainier was around.

And Rainier and Surreal always came by to say hello when they were in the vicinity of Nowles, which happened on a regular basis since Sadi had numerous businesses both in Nowles and the surrounding area.

Beron quickly got over his fear of her, although he was always going to treat her with a healthy amount of respect. Surreal had a wicked sense of humor and loved to tease, but he saw she was a steadfast friend to Rainier, and he liked that.

Not everyone was so tolerant of others who were different.

During the final year at the Academy, the students could specialize. Some of them chose to help in the classroom, others took apprenticeships. Some, like him, picked a project to work on.

He didn't know, even now, what had made him decide to paint an entire wall with important scenes from the Blood's long history.

Perhaps it was his frustration with so many people who only had a garbled idea of what had happened over the last few millennia. Or maybe it was his yearning to repay a little of the High Lord's kindness, a man who was reviled by many, feared by everyone, and misunderstood far too much.

Or perhaps his senses were just insulted by such a plain, blank wall sticking out like an unwanted child, when all the surrounding buildings were graceful and visually pleasing.

Nowles was a beautiful city, not large but well designed. But that one blank wall was just...wrong.

Really, it had been a stupid idea. He had only completed a quarter of the wall painting when examination time came around.

At least he could show the detailed scroll he'd created as a miniature of the wall painting, which also served as his guide. That alone had taken him four months to create, so looking at it objectively, it was surprising he had finished as much as he had.

The instructors came to examine his wall, studied his miniature, talked amongst themselves in muttered growls as they cast glowering looks at him and the wall. Then they left, leaving him limp with anxiety.

Hell's fire, his graduation depended upon completing this project! But he wasn't anywhere near finished. Not even a six month waiver would get him to more than the halfway mark.

Disgusted, he threw down his paintbrushes (large-sized) and went off to a local tavern to get drunk.

The next morning – rather late when he crawled out of bed, but still morning – he received his evaluation. To his amazement, they had approved his graduation, and also extended the support of his project for as long as it would take him to finish it!

If nothing else he would probably forever hold the record as the longest-attending student at the Academy. A good thing the wall wasn't larger, or he _never _would have finished the damned project.

As it was, it took him almost _three years_ to complete.

He had the uncomfortable suspicion that a certain Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince might have influenced their decision, but he couldn't prove anything. To this day he still wasn't sure how much his stepfather had been involved with it. He was grateful, though, for any support he could get in those days.

And the wall painting made his reputation. People began to come by periodically to see what progress he'd made.

There was talk of it everywhere, especially when it leaked out that the Academy believed it had the potential to be the finest work that any student had ever created. Then _everyone_ wanted to take a look at it, even half-done. When it was finally finished, a huge ceremony was held. Lady Angelline herself came to cast the preservation spells that would hold it intact for centuries to come.

After that, commissions showered down on him. He took them all to his new stepfather, who was kind enough to help him figure out which ones to take and which to decline.

But Uncle Saetan never would confess his part in Beron's schooling, although Beron tried to thank him several times. "You've made the most of your opportunities, boyo, and still remained an honest man. Your success is your own, all of it."

Three years later he and Rainier decided to move in together. One more year passed before they entered into a partner bonding. Uncle Saetan gifted them with a small but lovely townhouse in Dharo, complete with a large artist's studio.

"Except that I'll grow old and gray long before you get your first wrinkle," Rainier remarked lightly. But Beron recognized the fear inside, and kissed him.

"You get to be distinguished looking, while I still look wet behind the ears," he retorted. Then he gripped Rainier's hand. "You know, Uncle Saetan told me that love is a rare thing. He said one should take it when it comes, no matter whether it's for a year or a century. And he's right, darling. I'd rather be with you as many years as we can enjoy, than to ever be apart. As long as you feel the same way, that's all that matters."

Rainier relaxed into his arms, returning the kiss with a skill that fired both men's passions. "You are everything to me," Beron whispered as they undressed one another.

"As you are to me," Rainier murmured, taking his partner's face between his hands. Then he gave Beron another passionate kiss, which had led to...

Then a voice broke into his memories. "All right, all right, I'm ready! I suppose you've been ready for the last hour, at least." Rainier looked at him curiously. "Beron? You've got the oddest look on your face. Whatever are you thinking of?"

The Queen's son smiled at his lover and partner. "I'm thinking how much I love you. And how lucky we are to be together, to help celebrate the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary of my mother and stepfather."

Rainier took his arm. He was still handsome, even with white hair threading through the brown and smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

"We are lucky, and so are they. Come, darling, let's be off or we'll be late. And that won't be lucky for either of us, if Lucivar gets hold of our necks!"


	10. The Cousin

**Kaeleer – Dhemlan province, Amdarh**

**The Cousin**

Surreal SaDiablo stretched like a cat, then wiggled her toes as she pulled the blankets up a little higher.

There was a warming spell on the room and their blankets. Butler preferred to rise early, so he always made certain he left the room a comfortable temperature for his Lady, as he liked to call her.

And she liked to hear it from him.

A smile touched her lips.

_Sappy, silly, and romantical. Who'd have thought a former assassin and a Court spy could turn into a sentimental old married couple?_

It had been fun going to the party last night. A hell of a party, too. The Hall was filled with friends and family wanting to wish Uncle Saetan and his wife Sylvia many more years of marital happiness.

Halaway's Queen looked stunning in a flame-colored gown, her hair cut again in a short, fluffy layered cut.

Everyone, including Sylvia, was speechless for a full minute after Uncle Saetan's gift was opened.

A very long loop of flawless black sea opals, in a double-cabochon cut. Recently discovered from the seas around the Fyreborn Islands, they were rare and expensive. Surreal had never seen a set of them so fiery brilliant. And in _that _length, she could only imagine what they had cost the High Lord. Sylvia could wrap it around her neck at least three times!

It was so mind-boggling to think of him _married. _Not just the awe-inspiring, hot-tempered, Black-Jeweled Prince who was the fearsome and very ancient patriarch of the SaDiablo clan, but a loving husband and doting father.

Well, it was as amazing a love story as her own, wasn't it? She certainly hadn't ever thought about marriage and babies for herself, even after four hundred years.

For her first four hundred years, she'd concentrated on working up to killing Kartane SaDiablo, her slimy bastard of a father. It was even more satisfying when she finally did it, hand-in-hand with her mother Titian, the Harpy Queen.

Uncle Saetan had given her the priceless gift of more time with her mother. Time they had used to say all the things never said before a twelve-year-old Surreal had come home to find her mother's throat slit.

She couldn't be sad that Titian had faded. She and the other demon-dead had given their existence to save the Blood like herself who still honored the Old Ways, the ones who remained free of Dorothea's taint, from the deadly Witchstorm.

If she hadn't come to Kaeleer with Daemon, she would never have become a SaDiablo, never have fallen into this new life. Even though Daemon paid her a great many gold marks to be his second-in-command, she might have done it for free if she thought he would take her up on it.

Instead, she asked for the money because he had taught her to always treat business as business, even between relatives. And of course he had the money, a great deal more than she did – and her account with Marcus, the SaDiablo money manager, was not a small one.

At first she wasn't sure what to do with her fast-growing wealth, until she heard from one of her old sources that Deje was finally retiring. Telling Daemon she needed to be away for a short while, she rode the Webs to Beldon Mor to see her old friend again.

"Surreal honey, you lookin' good," her friend said with a warm smile and an embrace. There was some gray allowed in the dark hair now, but it was still elaborately styled, and as always she wore a tight-fitting, low-cut gown.

Surreal hugged her back. "It's been too long. I'm sorry I haven't kept in touch better."

Deje waved it off, handing her a glass of wine. "You been busy these days. I understand, it happens. I hear you joined up with the SaDiablos? You actually _related_ to that scary bastard?"

She couldn't help laughing. "Which one are you referring to? The Sadist, or the High Lord of Hell? They're both more terrifying than anything you could imagine. But yes, I'm related to both of them, as it turns out."

Her friend gasped as her hand flew up to press against her chest. "Th—the High Lord of Hell? You—Surreal, are you _crazy?_ You're related to...to-" Deje's voice faltered.

Grinning, Surreal reached over to pat her other hand. "It's all right, Deje. They've been good to me. They really are my family, and they introduced me to my mother's family, too. I was able to find out all kinds of things, things I'd always wondered about."

Deje stared. Hesitantly she asked, "Is the...the High Lord your real father?

Surreal laughed again. "Uncle Saetan? Darkness, no! But he is the father of Daemon Sadi and Lucivar Yaslana."

Deje's eyes widened even more. "_Uncle Saetan? _You call the High Lord of Hell _Uncle Saetan?"_ she sputtered.

Surreal took a sip of wine. "Well, it was an accident, really," she grinned. "Daemon wasn't well—he'd been ill, and he wanted to emigrate to Kaeleer. So I came along with him, just to make sure he got to where he wanted to go. I had a marker for safe passage for three months' time, so I figured I'd just be visiting. But they asked me what my family name was, for the records."

Shrugging, she said, "I thought I'd use my damned father's name, just to embarrass him and his Dark-cursed mother. What I _didn't_ know was that in Kaeleer, the SaDiablo name is the most famous name of all – not because of that Hayllian Whore Priestess, but because the High Lord of Hell is Saetan Daemon SaDiablo."

Blinking, Deje gaped at her. "Damn, Surreal! So when you used that name—"

"It meant I was making a claim to be one of Uncle Saetan's relatives. Fortunately for me, he didn't mind. He even gave me a family allowance. I've been living in Kaeleer ever since. Just recently I've begun working for Daemon. He handles all the business interests for the Family, and he needed someone to be his second-in-command. It's interesting work, and I like it so far – something different all the time, and I travel all around the Living Realms and trouble-shoot for him."

That made Deje laugh. "You mean you're really respectable now?"

"Isn't that something?" Surreal laughed with her. "Hard to believe, but it's true."

"And does this cousin of yours pay you a damn good wage to do all his work for him?"

Surreal smiled. "He does. He can afford it, too. The SaDiablos are as wealthy as they are powerful."

Deje drank off her wine. "Well, as long as you're happy, honey. You trust them, so I guess they must be all right."

Touched by her concern, Surreal nodded. "I can trust them, Deje. They take good care of their family and their people. It's something that's been lost for a long time in Terreille. Maybe someday the Blood here will behave that way, to restore the land and follow the Old Ways as it should be. But right now, it's a better life in Kaeleer."

Deje nodded. "I can believe that. Times are still rough out here."

"Hell's fire, Deje, why didn't you tell me? Was it really that bad? Is that why you decided to retire?" Surreal topped off their glasses again.

The older woman shrugged. "It wasn't any one thing. Nothing you or anyone else could have done about it, either. Guess I just got tired of it all. Business fell off a lot, you know, after all those Blood died. Those that were left, they was too busy trying to keep things from falling apart even worse than it did. Some of the girls were getting on in years, too, so it just seemed the right time to close things down."

Surreal frowned. "What's going to happen to them? Will they be all right? If they need anything, maybe I can help."

Deje blinked at her. "That's kind of you, but you got to think of yourself first, honey."

Surreal laughed. "Deje, believe me, I'm in no danger of ever starving. I've got money, a lot of it. And now that I'm working for my cousin, I've got more than I know what to do with. In fact, I was thinking," she eyed her friend, "maybe we can help one another. If times are as bad as you say, then maybe there are some women who could use a helping hand – or two."

After another conversation the next evening, she and Deje agreed to go into business together. Not a Red Moon house, but to help those women who wanted to do something else, get a fresh start.

She hesitated for a few days, but finally decided to bring in Daemon from the start.

Her cousin hated Terreille, couldn't even be anywhere in that Realm without getting ready to kill something, someone, _anything. _It held too many bad, bad memories for him, Jaenelle had told her, reminders of a hated past he had no defense from, emotionally.

But no one had a better head for business than Daemon Sadi. Making her decision, she arranged a meeting at the Hall so she and Deje could talk to him.

He immediately saw what was needed. "Education, Surreal. These women won't get anywhere without it. Not Protocol or history, but practical learning. They need to be able to figure out if what they want to do is going to be profitable or not."

Deje had been hesitant about meeting the Prince at his home in Kaeleer, but his words made her thoughtful. After a moment she said, "You mean – like trade schools? Yeah, that might work, at least for some of them."

"Like to like," Daemon suggested. "Not all of them will want to change professions. But for the ones that do, divide them up into groups that have similar ideas. Working together can be a powerful force, rather than everyone trying to strike out on their own. As the women get to know one another, it gives them a chance to form new partnerships, exchange ideas."

It took a lot of time and energy to get it going. But Surreal found that being a SaDiablo helped when one had connections to every Court in the Shadow Realm.

She found volunteers to help with the planning, of which there was far more than she'd thought. Deje chuckled richly. "You mighta known this, honey, if you ever tried to set up a Red Moon house of your own. Takes a powerful lot of work first."

Surreal snarled – she hated paperwork. But Daemon found an assistant for her so that she could keep doing _her_ job for _him._

"Self preservation, Surreal," he laughed, his hands held up in surrender when she stormed into his study demanding to know whether this was her project, or his.

All right, so he had a point. Surreal backed down, and let Maivah organize the paperwork, which she was very good at doing.

It seemed to take forever. It took at least four times longer than she had thought it would take. But eventually a school was opened in Beldon Mor, staffed by carefully screened workers who were provided their room and board, along with a small monthly wage. After a few false starts, a basic curriculum was finalized. Instructors were hired to teach a carefully chosen set of subjects.

"Keep it focused," Daemon advised. "Even when things are bad, trade goes on. People have to eat, they need clothes and shelter. Small enjoyments take on a bigger significance, and they don't have to be expensive ones."

The SaDiablo family and friends gave generously of their time and advice, then voluntarily chipped in their own funds to help. It was important, said Daemon, not just to have staff, but to have the _right_ staff.

On the one year anniversary of their first school opening, Uncle Saetan gave them a check so large, Surreal's knees buckled under her when she read the numbers, and Deje almost fainted on the spot. That check alone had paid for opening three more schools. The schools didn't need to be profitable, just pay their own way and manage the farms that were attached to each one.

It hadn't been easy, and they had their failures. But gradually their successes began to build. There were now eight schools across Terreille, all with good reputations.

Surreal missed her old friend terribly. Deje had passed away six months ago. All her estate was willed to the trust that ran the schools. She had never had many friends in Terreille, but Deje had been a close one, for many years.

Then the scent of coffee wafted in, and she looked around.

"Is that mine?" she demanded. "It had better be mine, or I swear I'll make someone pay."

Wyman Butler, a Green-Jeweled Warlord, grinned as he brought in a tray with two steaming cups and a small woven basket. He set the tray down on the table beside the bed, handing her a cup as he bent to kiss her lips.

"My darling, I know very well it's worth my life to walk in here in the morning without bringing you your morning coffee. Would I be so careless of my skin, with a Gray-Jeweled witch of the Dea al Mon in my bed?"

Surreal took her first sip of morning coffee, then sighed happily as she felt it slam into her system.

She grinned at her husband as she took a slice of dried fruit sweetbread, still hot from the oven and dripping with butter. Their cook wasn't quite as good as the Hall's Mrs. Beale – no one was – but when it came to baked goods, Lahvia could stand equal to anyone.

"You?" she snorted. "You take precious good care of your skin, Warlord. And a damned good thing too. If I thought you were being careless with it, I'd skin you alive – maybe without even using a knife."

Butler sighed melodramatically, pressing a hand over his heart like the hero in that very bad play they'd seen last week.

"Ah, 'the dulcet tones of love, sweet love!' I have just been given the priceless declaration of undying affection from an assassin. There's nothing like it to start my morning off with a...stab of excitement," he exaggerated his natural drawl.

Surreal threw a pillow at him, which he deftly snatched out of the air with his free hand. "I _will _stab you, if you don't stop making bad jokes at me first thing in the morning," she threatened, her green-gold eyes twinkling.

"But I thought it was my bad jokes which made you want to marry me, my sweet," he retorted, still smiling.

As he reached into the basket for a slice of bread, she grabbed his sleeve to yank him close. "Nope. It was the sex," she whispered as she licked her tongue over his lips. "Just hot, sweaty, mind-boggling sex. And lots of it."

Her husband deftly rescued the coffee cups by skimming them over to the sidetable using Craft.

"Well, my dear, if you insist..." he shifted onto the bed.

"Yeah, I do," she replied with a grin.

The tray slid to the floor unheeded. Buttered toast is easy to clean up.


	11. The Librarian

**Ebon Askavi, The Keep**

**The Librarian**

Geoffrey set aside several stacks of books for Danyul to shelve later, when he had some spare time. The others he still needed to catalog, marking down who referred to them and why – basic information they occasionally found useful.

He was behind on his work after visiting the Hall for several days. It had been a special occasion, however, so he felt it important to go, and the Seneschal agreed. He didn't get involved with the living. But as Draca said, when Witch was born, all their lives had changed.

Saetan's, of course, most of all.

It amazed him still – Saetan was _married, _with a set of twins. Who would have thought any Guardian, one of the living dead, would become so much a part of the living again after fifty thousand years?

During that time, Hayll's fortunes had fallen, risen, and then fallen again. But the High Lord of Hell remained, to continue the Old Ways of the Blood.

He couldn't help the thought that always came to him. How different might it have been if his people had someone like Saetan Daemon SaDiablo to rally around? Someone with not only power, but who possessed the strength of will to match his passion, and the honor to do what was right even when no one else would stand with him?

But...there hadn't been anyone, at least not when they needed it. So the _V'tqekt_ were gone now. All of them.

Except for himself.

He had lived a very long, long time. So long, he could remember when the few massive dragons that remained still flew in the skies.

In his people's time there had been only one Living Realm. As the dragons disappeared entirely, the _V'tqekt _flourished for almost a hundred millennia. But eventually the humans grew more stronger, more numerous, fighting back ferociously.

In a last, futile attempt to preserve their race, his people united to unleash a massive surge of power. It split the Realm into two: Terreille, and a newly-created Shadow Realm his people called Kaeleer, set on its own psychic plane. They were linked only at guarded points.

But the decline continued. The humans continued to increase in numbers, even moving into the new Shadow Realm to claim entire regions for themselves.

Until finally the few of them that were left knew they must decide whether to Fade, or continue their faltering existence.

It was a solemn, silent moment when the remaining sixteen cast their votes anonymously. Draca, chosen as their neutral observer, counted and looked up. Her face was always impassive, yet Geoffrey thought there was an air of sadness about her.

They all knew what she was going to say, so it was no surprise. "The vote iss...unanimouss. The _V'tqekt _have chossen...to Fade."

Draca gazed unblinkingly at them. "Lorn assks if one of you iss willing to remain. It iss important to look after the recordss at the Keep. There will be timess when they will be needed by otherss who are yet to come."

The sixteen of them had looked at one another. Then Geoffrey stepped forward. "I'll stay," he volunteered. "I will become a Guardian."

No one objected. The fifteen remaining _V'tqekt_ Faded over the next few weeks, until nothing remained of a once-great race.

Geoffrey hid his shame at not accepting the fate of the others. He _wanted _to stay. He loved books, respected the knowledge of all races, not just his own. Even if the new records of history would be tracking a different people, he found the prospect interesting and intriguing. Even a little...exciting.

He had long ago accepted they were dying off; that it was the time for Humans to rise ascendent.

There were never many of the _V'tqekt. _They were a long-lived race, solitary in temperament. They possessed a different time-sense than other races, and had always been more comfortable with the Dark Realm than humans were.

Because, although no one remembered any longer except for Draca and Lorn, the _V'tqekt_ had originated in the Dark Realm...emerging into the Living Realm so long ago, not even they knew for certain how they had come to be.

The most popularly accepted story was that for some unknown reason, some members of an Ancient Race had not faded into the Darkness as did others. Instead they lived a dark half-life, continuing to prey upon newcomers who passed over, until at some point, they gathered sufficient power to pass back into the Living Realm again.

They were changed, but they were not true Guardians. Although they needed the blood of others to survive, they were not bothered by light, and did have a finite life. But once they died, there was no chance of becoming demon-dead and continuing the cycle of Rebirth.

The Self, what the _V'tqekt_ called their _Naatyae_, faded away entirely, never to return.

To become a Guardian, something must always be sacrificed. Humans thought they had invented the saying, "Everything has its price," but they hadn't. It was the most elementary Rule of Power, no matter what race or when or where, and governed every Realm.

For Geoffrey, the price was the loss of his Time-sense. He did not grieve over it, because he felt it was a fair trade. The ability to jump backwards or forwards through Time was useful, but always draining. And he'd never been very good at it anyway, unlike most of his fellow _V'tqekt_.

A part of him felt...empty, after the Ceremony. But he got used to it.

After all, he had all of Eternity to do so.

It was why he had never felt any desire to Fade, even though the millennia were now past counting. He had lost the ability to feel the weight of years, and as he watched other races rise and fall, he wondered if he was lucky or unlucky in his loss.

Always a few Guardians from a dying race would survive, only to eventually weary of the lonely half-life. First their Spirit would begin to falter, then slowly they would Fade, like a smouldering ember that refuses to flare up into fire, but only crumbles around the edges until it falls apart completely.

He watched as the Human races fought, merged, split again, partnered, betrayed, fought, then repeated everything over and over again. Each time they rose a little higher, fell back a little deeper, in an endless ebb and flow of power against power.

He saw an island race rise to its cultural apex, then decline under the outside pressure of other, younger races desirous of its riches and learning, like greedy children snatching at sweets. One of the island Queens named Cassandra came away from her Offering with a faceted Black jewel, stunned and frightened. He felt sorry for her – there had never been many receiving the Black – but he had no help to offer. She had never been comfortable with him, and he found it hard to like her.

"Sshe pavess the way for the dreamss that will become flessh," said Draca soothingly.

Geoffrey nodded. "I see," he said respectfully, and continued to watch with detached interest.

As her people slowly disappeared, Cassandra chose to become a Guardian to extend her lifespan. She had ruled one of the largest provinces in Terreille for centuries, when one day a young man petitioned to join her Court. He had no connections, lacked experience, and his bloodline on both sides was unknown. But he wore a Red Jewel, and was a Warlord Prince.

Even that might not have gotten him into Cassandra's Court, except that he was unusually handsome, possessing a sensual charm unlike anyone the Queen had encountered before.

The young man exuded a potent sexual appeal – backed up by a ruthless temper that gained him a formidable reputation in her court within months.

In those Old Days, it was a traditional Rite of Passage for the Blood to come to the Keep to present themselves after making their Offering. Most of them, even the ones who wore darker Jewels, hurried away as soon as they could.

Even Queen Cassandra had not stayed more than the mandatory three days, visiting as seldom as possible. She preferred her home in Laages to the isolation of the Keep.

This one, although he wasn't ready to make his Offering yet, presented himself less than six months after joining the Court. He asked for permission to come for one week each month.

Geoffrey had seen many thousands of this race; some few powerful, most of them not. Something about this human male was intriguing. "Why?" Geoffrey asked, surprised. "You're a Warlord Prince, not a scholar!"

A glint of humor sparked in the gold eyes. "No, not a scholar," he agreed, the deep voice a melodious weapon in itself. "But I fear I've had a rather—irregular education, and I wish to remedy that. My Queen has given me permission to absent myself for however long I feel I need my, ah, lessons."

Geoffrey studied him, then nodded. "Very well. What areas of study are you interested in pursuing? I can make up a list of suggested reading, then go over it with you tomorrow afternoon."

Saetan Daemon smiled slowly, then called in a paper which he handed to Geoffrey. "I made a list of my own. These are books I couldn't find anywhere else. There's others I'm interested in, but these are the most important."

The Keep's librarian felt his jaw drop before he'd gotten more than halfway down the page. He was expecting a request for information on etiquette or social registers – the usual lightweight reading needed to maneuver through Court politics.

Instead, this Prince was interested in obscure history tomes, most detailing races long gone. Several were collections of myths from far-off lands – some of which Geoffrey knew for a fact actually existed and were true stories. Two books were about the history of the Hourglass coven, one of which wasn't even known to exist by most Black Widows.

He stared at the man, who looked back at him with perfect composure. Geoffrey didn't look human, never had. The _V'tqekt _were only of moderate height, but all had the same dead-white skin and jet-black hair, with strangely red lips, like a slash of fresh blood. Like Draca, the ancient, faintly reptilian Seneschal of the Keep, he made humans nervous. Something that was useful at times in dealing with these younger races.

But this one...his _Naatyae_ was different than other humans who had come. It resonated strangely, a thrumming sound that was vaguely familiar yet unidentifiable.

His Birthright Jewel was Red – but it was a stronger, deeper Red than any Geoffrey had felt before, from any human.

Geoffrey suddenly felt sure he had never met a more dangerous man than this one, although the Prince was doing nothing more than smiling politely. There was confidence in this Prince. Not the blustery, overweening ego of most males, but a focused, lethal languor that whispered of the ultimate Darkness...Final Death.

He was also equally certain that this man _knew_ the books he sought were here. And that nothing and no one was going to stop him from reading them.

It was the first time in a very long life that a _human_ was making _him_ nervous.

Feeling as if he were balanced on the edge of a very sharp knife, Geoffrey managed to say calmly, "This is quite a list. Some of these are fragile, due to their age, so we don't normally allow them to be taken outside. A number of them are stored a considerable distance away in the Archives. I can have perhaps half of them ready for you by late tomorrow afternoon, but the remainder might take me a couple of days more. We've got half a dozen scholars who just arrived from Sceval, and I've a lot to do in a short time."

Saetan lifted a brow, but nodded without speaking. Feeling unaccountably relieved, Geoffrey watched him leave – then went to consult with Draca.

"The Prince will play an important role in the hisstory of hiss people," advised the Seneschal. "He will take good care of the bookss you give him."

The Prince did just that, returning the books always in the same condition he'd received them in. The man read voraciously – Geoffrey finally gave up and hired an assistant librarian from Brenemae just to handle Saetan's never-ending requests for more books tucked away deep in the Archives.

Geoffrey watched with growing interest as Saetan fought his way inexorably to the top over the following decades, becoming Consort to his Queen.

She found it hard to refuse him, impossible to resist him. But when he gained the Black – an uncut Jewel, meaning his powers were stronger than hers – she began to grow fearful of the Prince who loved her. Until finally, after teaching Saetan the secrets of the Hourglass in exchange for his becoming a Guardian, she faked her own death to hide from a man she felt she couldn't control any longer.

Geoffrey shook his head. Well, he'd never thought much of Cassandra's brains. Why she was given the Black over other females, he would never understand.

Saetan was the most powerful Blood male in their history. He had returned to Hayll wealthy and with a new family name. But he was still a man, one who had been alone now for centuries, and could make mistakes in judgment. He could seduce any woman breathing, but a Warlord Prince has a naturally protective instinct towards women.

That made him vulnerable, especially to a woman like Hekatah, who didn't deserve anything except to be admired – preferably from a distance – for her low cunning.

She caught the Prince at the right time, when he was still young enough as a Guardian to be virile, but the centuries since he'd lost his Queen made him yearn for a woman's love. Geoffrey felt uncharacteristically sad to see Prince SaDiablo twisted up in her coils.

And when Zuulaman vanished, wiped out of existence by the rage of a Warlord Prince driven mad by grief, it frightened him as nothing ever had before.

None of his people had wielded the power these humans did. They had not been as compatible with the Jewels that Lorn gifted each race with.

"It iss a Dark Time," said Draca, shaking her head. "We can only wait to ssee what happenss."

It was a very long wait...another fifty millennia before the Living Myth, the true Witch, finally appeared.

And she who was Dreams Made Flesh, little Jaenelle Angelline, woke up the tired, aging Warlord Prince who had lost his Queen, his sons, his friends.

Who, although he didn't realize it, still needed a Queen to serve, a Lady to protect, and a child to love.


	12. The Question

**Kaeleer, Dhemlan province, Halaway, the Queen's Manor**

**The Question**

He was reading in his study when there was a knock on the door. "Enter," Saetan said, knowing who it was by the psychic scent.

His youngest son, one of his three most precious loves, came in. "Father," he replied, inclining his head in respect.

Since he was the one who had given the twins their lessons in Protocol, he could hardly object when the children always displayed such faultless manners. It made him wonder if perhaps he'd been a little _too_ emphatic as an instructor.

"Sit down, Aidan," Saetan nodded towards a chair at right angles to his own. "Coffee?"

"None, thank you, Father." Aidan seated himself.

Of his five sons who had lived to adulthood, Daemon was the most beautiful, Lucivar the most warlike, Peyton the most impulsive, Mephis the most controlled.

And Aidan...

Aidan, like him, was more handsome than beautiful. He had always excelled at his lessons, although Bethani was no slouch either. But Aidan had a questing mind, one that reminded Saetan of himself in those long-ago days when he had sought to gain knowledge that no one else seemed to care about any longer.

"_Why do you read all those old tales, Prince?" _Cassandra asked him, genuinely surprised._ "What are you looking for?"_

He'd never been able to make her understand his thirst for knowledge, his curiosity about races long gone. She preferred to live in the present, spy lightly into the future, but keep the door forever closed on the past. She refused to tell him anything about her vanished people. Knowing she had _been_ there, walked those long-gone streets, talked to both the once-famed and the everyday people, lived a life vastly different than what she had now – he found it puzzling and frustrating that she behaved as though it had never happened.

Aidan, he thought, would have felt those same emotions. The past was real to him, just as it was to his father.

Bringing his mind back to the present, Saetan steepled his fingers as he leaned back. "Is there something on your mind?"

A faint quirk of the chiseled lips. Aidan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees with hands lightly clasped in front of him. The unconscious grace of the movement made Saetan catch his breath.

_Hell's fire, this boy's going to cut a swath through the girls in Kaeleer like no one's done since Daemon and Aaron!_

Then he revised that thought. Aidan was a man now, not a boy. He found himself pitying those unknown females, and coughed to make himself focus again.

"I have a question about our family's past, Father. I thought perhaps you might be willing to answer it, although I'll understand if you don't."

His son's voice had started changing two years ago, becoming a little deeper. Saetan thought it would deepen further as he matured...just as his, and Daemon's, had done.

Oh, yes. Those poor females would never realize what hit them, when this new SaDiablo male chose to attach himself to a Court. He cleared his throat again. "Then ask, Aidan." He smiled suddenly. "I can always refuse to answer with the defense that I can't remember most of my past any longer, seeing as how it was all so long ago."

Aidan laughed, and his father savored the sound. It was a carefree, boyish sound, the kind of laughter savagely beaten out of his older brothers by Dorothea and her bitches.

It had taken a long time for Daemon and Lucivar to recapture their laughter.

Saetan had forgiven and forgotten a great many things in his lifetime. But there would never be any forgiveness for that crime, nor forgetting his mistake.

"I don't know why it never occurred to me before to ask. Except, perhaps, that we could tell, even when we were little, there were certain things you never wanted to talk about. So if you still don't want to tell me, that's all right." Aidan's gold eyes were fixed on his.

Intrigued, Saetan replied, "Enough dancing around, youngster. What is it you're so curious about?"

Aidan hesitated a fraction of a second, then gathered his courage. "If Dorothea wasn't related to us, how did she get the family name?"

A thunderous growl shook the room. The windows rattled in their frames and glasses trembled atop the sideboard.

Startled by his loss of control at the unexpected mention of that bitch's name, Saetan drew in a deep breath, carefully backing away, step by step, from the killing edge. Then one more breath, until he felt calm enough to speak. "You're right. That's a subject I don't discuss. With _anyone._"

His son had paled a little, but he kept his eyes on his father's face, not moving a muscle. Aidan had spent his childhood with three Dark-Jeweled Princes. He knew how to remain outwardly calm, even relaxed, so those dangerous, predatory tempers couldn't pick up the slightest hint of fear.

His father, however, would know very well his stomach had dropped into his shoes. And that only strong discipline was keeping his breathing regular and even, instead of panicked gasping and a quick bodily retreat.

He was seldom the cause of those eyes glazing over, but he'd seen it happen often enough. They were Warlord Princes, with all the passion and violence of their caste.

_His _caste, too...but he controlled his own instinctive reaction. It was getting harder, just as he'd been told it would be. But he was still a few years away from full maturity, and until then, discipline and breathing exercises helped to keep both fear and temper in check.

He nodded, the movement a little more jerky than normal. "Then I apologize for upsetting you, Father. I'll leave you alone now."

Saetan took one more breath, then held up his hand, stopping his son from leaving. "No, Aidan. It's not your fault there are still...regrets for the past. But I don't wish to talk about that time. It was—," Saetan swallowed, "painful. In many ways."

"I'm sorry, Fath—" but the High Lord cut him off.

"If you want the whole story, ask Geoffrey. Tell him he has my permission to tell you what you want to know."

Saetan closed his eyes and Aidan could almost see him emotionally withdraw. "Now go, please."

Shaken, Aidan left as quietly as he could.


	13. The Answer

**Ebon Askavi, The Keep**

**The Answer**

Called to the door, Geoffrey exclaimed, "Aidan! What a pleasurable surprise, my boy! We weren't expecting you."

Saetan's son, who more and more resembled a younger version of his father, smiled as he shook hands. "Hello, Geoffrey. I'm sorry to drop in on you without scheduling a time beforehand. I know you're busy these days."

The Keep's librarian waved it off. "Most of it can wait. And Danyul can take care of the rest, at least for a while. Come sit down with a glass of wine, and tell me how everyone is doing. Although I hope nothing's changed much, seeing as how we were all together just a few weeks ago."

"Everyone is fine," Aidan reassured him. "The family just got back from Dharo, visiting Sabrina. Everyone is so proud that Grayson returned from his Offering with a Red Jewel. Mother Night, it seems like only yesterday when he and Rhaymon and I were pelting down the hallways, playing tag with the Scelties."

Geoffrey smiled. "Do you feel ready to make your Offering soon?"

Aidan shook his head. "I don't think I'll be ready for a long while yet. Rhaymon, though – I think Father and Daemon believe he'll try very soon. He's like Jaenelle, if he's going to do something sooner or later, then the sooner the better." Grinning, he added, "Mother says that's why Daemon's gotten gray hair so young, whereas Father hasn't changed much for the last fifty thousand years."

That made Geoffrey laugh. The Queen of Halaway was irrepressible. He could think of very few people, Queens or no, who were comfortable saying exactly what they thought to the SaDiablo Princes.

He had not known her very well before her marriage. After having the chance to talk with her more often, he found he liked the woman a great deal. Saetan might not have picked wisely when he was younger, but his taste in women had improved immeasurably with age.

Geoffrey poured a glass of spring wine for Aidan and handed it to him. "So, lad, what book do you want to borrow that's so urgent it couldn't wait for a messenger?"

Aidan took it with a word of thanks. He took a polite sip, then put it down. No mistaking who had taught him his manners, the Librarian thought. He had never seen either one of the twins make a single mistake in etiquette.

"No, there's no book I need, Geoffrey." He frowned. "That is, unless you tell me the answer to my question has already been written down somewhere, which I suppose is quite possible."

The Keep's librarian lifted his brows. "Ah, a question. Something your father can't – or won't – answer?"

Aidan bit his lip, and Geoffrey realized the boy was more nervous than he appeared. Mother Night, this was serious, then.

"He...won't. But he said you knew the whole story." Aidan took a deep breath. "How is it that the Whore Priestess Dorothea had our family name?"

Surprised, Geoffrey rocked back on his heels. Of all the questions the boy could have asked, this wasn't the one he would have thought would come up. Still, he could understand that Saetan would prefer not to revisit that extraordinarily painful period in his life.

Cautiously he asked, "Do I have your father's permission to tell you? He said that specifically?"

"Yes, you do." Aidan studied him. Abruptly he asked, "Are you afraid of the High Lord? I never thought – but you're wary about this, I can tell."

With a sigh, Geoffrey got up to pour himself a glass of yarbarah. He warmed it with a tongue of witchfire, then came back and seated himself.

"My boy, a man would have to be a complete fool not to be scared of your father. I knew that the first time I met him." Geoffrey took a sip of his blood wine, a reminiscent smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "He only had his Birthright Red at the time, but I knew the moment I laid eyes on him that he was the most dangerous killer I'd ever met, regardless of race or Jewel. I was terrified of him, to be honest, although I tried damned hard not to show it."

He smiled as Saetan's son smothered a grin. "You do hide it well," he assured the older man.

Geoffrey's smile turned wry. "Never well enough to fool him. But Protocol gives all of us the polite fiction that we can interact as equals, as long as you're careful not to take any liberties that men such as your father and brothers won't permit."

The gold eyes were troubled. "He likes you. I _know_ that."

"Yes, he does. And I like him, a great deal." Geoffrey took another sip, and set the ravensglass down. "But that has nothing to do with being sensible of what to do and what not to do, when dealing with a Warlord Prince who wears any Dark Jewels, but especially one of the only two men who wear the Black."

Shrewdly he asked, "I'd wager when you asked your father that question, he scared you silly with his reaction, didn't he?"

Aidan choked over his wine. "Yes, he did," the young man confessed ruefully. "He doesn't get angry at me often – hardly ever, in fact. So I was...surprised. I guess I shouldn't have been, though. He hated Dorothea and Hekatah."

"Not quite." Geoffrey shifted uncomfortably. "I'd say you're right about Dorothea, but Hekatah...well, his feelings for her were, um, mixed."

The boy was sharp; he didn't miss the hesitation in Geoffrey's tone. "Because he was married to her, you mean?"

"That was some of it. She would have made a fortune on the theatre stage – she was one of the best actresses you'd ever hope not to meet." Geoffrey swirled the last sip of blood wine, then finished it. "Of course she was lovely, too – petite, perfect features, one of those girlish, high-pitched breathy voices. And she was a master schemer, when it came to getting her own way."

Aidan nodded. "She wanted Father, and got him to marry her."

"Not your father – his money and his power were what she was after," Geoffrey corrected him. "She knew he wanted children, so she held his heart captive with Mephis and Peyton. Until she announced paternity, she held the whip hand. Saetan spent a fortune keeping her family afloat. When Peyton's Birthright Ceremony was coming up, your father spent over four million gold marks to pay off shop vendors and gambling debts her family had run up."

The boy's jaw dropped. "_Four million gold marks?_ But fifty thousand years ago—" he choked, speechless.

"Yes. Equivalent to ten times that or more, nowadays. Astonishing, isn't it? She wasn't any different than the rest of her family, you understand – they were all greedy little bastards."

Gold eyes troubled, Aidan said, "He must...he must have truly loved her at one time."

Geoffrey smiled gently. "He loved who he _thought_ she was, lad. If Saetan has one character flaw, it's that he respects women – _all _women. Even if they turn out not to deserve it. He can't help it, you know. He's protective of women by his nature. He'll always have that kind of gallantry which holds him back. Daemon and Lucivar don't have that problem, of course, because of their upbringing. Which is why I think your father is right when he says his two eldest sons are a stronger pair than he and Andulvar were in their day. And believe me, those two Princes were feared throughout all three Realms in their time."

"You've told us many stories about Andulvar. What did he think of Hekatah?" Aidan's fingers toyed with his glass, but his eyes remained fixed on Geoffrey's face.

"He despised her. And it's _why_ he despised her that led to Dorothea's being able to claim the SaDiablo name, if not the money or power."

Geoffrey settled back into his chair. "I'll start at the beginning, although you already know most of it. Andulvar and Saetan came to Queen Cassandra's court around the same time. They were both Red-Jeweled Warlord Princes, and both of them were in the same position – they wore Dark jewels and might wear darker ones soon, but neither had connections or birth. Just jewels and caste, with very little money.

"Nobody thought they would become friends, they were so different. But they did, and the two of them were a formidable pair. There wasn't anyone who could defeat them, even wearing darker Jewels. Somehow the two of them together, even before they made their Offerings and came back with Ebon-gray and Black, were damned near invincible. Andulvar's weapons skill and your father's ruthless temper – there wasn't anyone, after a while, who was willing to stand against them on the killing fields."

Geoffrey clasped his hands together, and raised his eyes again. "They were close, those two Princes. The best of friends, a friendship that was tested time and again. But then Cassandra died, or so everyone thought. Her Court broke, and Saetan disappeared from Terreille for several centuries.

"When he returned, he had the name SaDiablo and enough wealth to buy half of Hayll's Hundred Families outright. Nobody knew where he'd been, where he'd gotten the name or where all the gold came from. I think..." Geoffrey hesitated. "I think he felt he had something to prove, and now was the time to do it. Anyway, Saetan became infatuated with Hekatah. He married her, but once Mephis was born, she began to get bored with her husband. She started taking a few lovers here and there, nothing indiscreet."

"My father didn't..." Aidan couldn't finish. The Librarian shook his head.

"No, Saetan didn't stray. But after Peyton's Birthright Ceremony, Hekatah's infidelities became bolder, more perverse. She had an expensive cottage on the outskirts of Draega where she'd bring her young men and play with them. If she'd been content with them, I don't think Saetan would have ever divorced her. He adored his sons, and she was their mother. For that, he was willing to forgive her almost anything.

Geoffrey drew in a breath. "But she was like a destructive, spoilt child. Even though Saetan was willing to put up with her greed, her infidelities, she became jealous of the time he spent with Andulvar. I don't know what was going through her mind, nobody does. Maybe she thought it would be amusing to see an Ebon-gray-Jeweled Prince and a Black-Jeweled Prince fighting for her favors. She did consider herself irresistible. Or maybe she couldn't stand having Saetan pay attention to anyone else except her, even when she spent most of _her_ time spending his money or riding her toy-boys.

"Whatever her reason was, she was determined to break up his friendship with Andulvar. I'm not sure exactly how she did it, but she seduced him. And she made sure to do it during her fertile period, so she became pregnant."

Aidan shuddered. "What a horrible woman! Did my father get angry and quarrel with Andulvar?"

"He's a smart man, your father. He'd allowed Hekatah a lot of leeway, but I think he was becoming tired of her excesses. Maybe he was starting to realize she was trying to manipulate him. Either way, he didn't blame Andulvar. And although the bitch was as scheming as she was pretty, she wasn't careful or learned. She never bothered to check Eyrien laws, which as you know, are different than Terreillian law. She was counting on using the babe to break up the friendship between the two men, but instead..."

"Instead, Eyrien law is paternal and patriarchal," finished Aidan. "Andulvar had full rights to the baby as soon as it was born, provided it was Eyrien."

"Which he was," Geoffrey nodded, pleased by Aidan's astuteness. "He named the boy Ravenar, and took him to Ebon Rih to raise. After that, Andulvar loathed the woman."

Aidan frowned a little. "Ravenar...he died during the war between the Realms, didn't he? I remember Father saying he never found his body, nor my brother Peyton's."

"Yes, he died. As did so many other good men, to Hekatah's ambitions to rule. Now, he did hand-fast with an Eyrien woman for a year, which produced Prothvar. The relationship didn't last, however. _But,"_ said Geoffrey with deliberate emphasis, "just before going off to war, Ravenar also fathered a child on a Hayllian woman, supposedly one of Hekatah's "cousins". I don't know if he was going to come back and marry her or not. At any rate, when the child had her Birthright Ceremony, she named Ravenar as the father."

Aidan's frown grew. "So Ravenar started a Hayllian bloodline. Is that where this all began, then?"

"Yes. Four thousand years ago, Hekatah began scheming with a young priestess named Dorothea. Hekatah was demon-dead, so nobody wanted anything to do with her. But Dorothea could be the public figure, hold the position they were trying to create – a High Priestess of all Terreille."

Geoffrey gestured with a white hand. "But no one had ever heard of the woman before. She was from a small village, serving at a lower-level Court. She was exactly the right person to partner with Hekatah – just as greedy and perverted – but she lacked any useful connections. And that's where Lanzo SaDiablo came in."

"One of Ravenar's line?" Aidan protested when Geoffrey nodded. "But...from what you said, he wasn't a SaDiablo at all!"

The Librarian shrugged. "That's right, he wasn't of your father's bloodline. But Hekatah was still a SaDiablo when she had Ravenar. She and Dorothea 'discovered' old records – ones they created themselves, giving Lanzo a bloodline he never deserved. This made Lanzo, a weak-minded, Yellow-Jeweled Warlord, instantly useful for their schemes. Dorothea married him to get the newly discovered family name, she became respectable in the eyes of the people she needed to influence, and Lanzo got an easy life with nothing more onerous than having Dorothea in his bed."

Aidan nodded absently, blinking as he tried to fit this new information into what he already knew. Then something struck him and he looked up. "But...but there was a son, too, wasn't there? Kartane, I think? Isn't he Surreal's father?"

"He is. The story gets complicated at that point. Kartane grew up in the same house as Daemon, thinking of him as an unacknowledged older cousin. At one time they were close, but then that relationship crumbled under Kartane's becoming as perverted as his mother. He started spearing younger and younger women, then began using children. He speared Titian when she was only twelve, but didn't succeed in shattering the Chalice. She chose to have the baby, named her Surreal, but she died when Surreal was twelve."

Fascinated, Aidan asked, "So how did Surreal become our cousin? She really isn't a blood relation, is she?"

Geoffrey shook his head. "No, she isn't. But she is undisputedly Kartane's daughter. Saetan said that if he was using the SaDiablo name, she had just as much right to use it as Kartane did."

"Surreal told us she didn't realize when she was emigrating to Kaeleer, what it meant to say her family name was SaDiablo," Aidan grinned.

"I can't imagine she did. You see, she and Daemon had known each other for hundreds of years. Tersa brought them together. Daemon didn't know for a long time that Tersa was his mother, but he was always fond of her, treated her kindly. Somehow Tersa hooked up with Titian for a little while. She introduced Daemon to Titian and Surreal, got him to help them out. He was never around very often, but they would find one another at odd times."

For a moment Geoffrey was silent, then he said quietly, "You know that Daemon was a pleasure slave for centuries, wearing the Ring of Obedience. He learned to be secretive, to work behind the scenes, to be careful never to let Dorothea find out about anyone he helped or liked. He couldn't do anything about Lucivar, and they learned quickly never to harm Manny or Jo, or Daemon would go completely berserk.

"Your brother helped a lot of people over the centuries. It wasn't enough to stop Dorothea and Hekatah, but he slowed them down, made it harder for them. Lucivar did it too, but it was Daemon who had the greater influence. Dorothea wasn't able to keep him on too tight a leash, the way Prythian did with Lucivar. When he went cold, no one could control him. She always had to walk the line between tormenting him but not driving him over the killing edge. The landens loved him, the servants would do anything for him. He'd help good people in whatever small ways he could. Titian and Surreal were two of those people."

Geoffrey sighed deeply. "So now you know how Dorothea got the Family name. And why your father didn't want to be reminded of it."

"Yes. Thank you, Geoffrey." Aidan put his hand out, and Geoffrey clasped it. "It means so much to me that I can come to you to hear the real story. It's important to me, to know the truth of what truly happened over the millennia."

The Librarian said with a smile, "That's because you're your father's son. You care about the past because you know it creates your present and influences your future. Tell me, lad, have you ever thought of becoming a historian yourself?"

Aidan blinked. "No. Y—you think I should?"

"I think you're still young and have many things you'd like to do in the next few centuries. But you've inherited your father's love of learning and respect for the written word. To be honest, I don't think anyone outside your Family could show future generations what your father and his sons are truly like."

Geoffrey added, "I've watched entire races rise and fall again. I can assure you, no matter how much knowledge we have here at the Keep, so much more has been lost forever. Your father – he's the most remarkable human I've ever known. He deserves someone who will chronicle his life accurately and thoughtfully. He's been a part of the most important events in the history of the Blood."

He rose to his feet, and Aidan followed suit. "Anyway, think about it. Just write down the stories all of us have told you, mark down your own observations. Then someday, maybe you'll decide to put them together. Or perhaps some future relative will do it for you. Either way, there will be _something_ written, something that gives a fair description of the people who are living now."

Aidan nodded. "All right, Geoffrey. I think that's something I could do. I'll try, anyway."

"Good. Now let me get back to my work, and I'll see you later tonight at dinner."

Aidan left to greet the Seneschal, whom he greeted with a hug – one of only two people who had ever dared – his sister being the other.

"Aidan. It iss good to sssee you again."

"Draca, dearest, it's even better for me to see you again. Bethani sends her love, of course. I'm going to take a nap before dinner. Do I need to know anything before I fall down on my bed?"

Her face never changed expression, but he could tell she was amused. The twins were always able to sense her feelings. "No. There are ssome sscholarss here, but they leave tomorrow."

"Good! I'll have you and Geoffrey and Lorn all to myself then. I shall see you later, then," Aidan winked at her, then ran up the stairs.

The family had an entire wing at the Keep, which was assigned when his parents married and decided to split their time between the two residences. It was one of the amazing things about the place – however much room was needed, Lorn somehow created it from...nothing, as far as anyone could tell.

Precisely how dragons did this, no one had any idea. Saetan said he thought the Archives were stored in another psychic Realm separate from the Three Realms, a concept that made Aidan dizzy trying to imagine it.

Although he promised Geoffrey to think about his idea, he had finished dinner and was back up in his bedroom when he sat down to consider it.

Was he really the right person to be writing about his family? Or perhaps...he should look at it the other way round. Was he the _wrong _person?

Aidan thought it over carefully. No, he wasn't.

Picking up a pen, he began to write.

_-Finis-_


	14. Notes on the Saetan Trilogy

**Notes on this Black Jewels AU**

* * *

**1) Everybody's alive, and everybody's happy (mostly).**

As far as "Twilight's Dawn" is concerned, I'm fine with Daemon killing off Falonar, but not with what happened to Surreal and Rainier. Way too angsty for me, and I want Rainier to have a happy ending. Nothing else in TD relates to my AU.

This is a trilogy. "Saetan's Choice" is story #1. "Saetan & Sylvia Redux" is #2. The third story will be "In The Beginning" and has not yet been posted.

**2) How the long-lived races age **(Hayllian, Dhemlan, and Eyrien)**:**

Bishop's general explanation is "fast growth, followed by long plateaus." My AU assumes that the weaker the Jewel/Caste, the sooner most of the long-lived Blood make their Offering, although not always. Jaenelle making her Offering at 20 is unusual, but her Birthright Jewels were Black and she's not one of the long-lived. But most Darker Jewels and high-caste Blood, like Saetan and Daemon, don't make the Offering for many decades.

**3) Why Lanzo SaDiablo, Dorothea's husband, was not a true SaDiablo **(Chapter 11):

In Queen of the Darkness, Saetan tells Surreal "...you have as much right to the name as Kartane SaDiablo." As a bastard Surreal has no right to the SaDiablo name at all (and why Daemon was given the surname Sadi, not SaDiablo). Saetan is obliquely saying that neither does Kartane have any right to the family name – e.g., he is not of Saetan's bloodline.

I believe that Mephis' SaDiablo bloodline was lost in the war between Kaeleer and Terreille started by his mother Hekatah; all living members of the SaDiablo family except Saetan died in the bloodshed. Saetan claims Surreal as a relative because he approves of her, not because she has any blood claim on him.

**4) Saetan blurs the line between the living and the dead as no one has before:**

Thanks to Jaenelle's potions, Saetan's body returns to living flesh. There is a real question whether he can continue such physicality when Witch dies. It's very likely her blood is in the strengthening potions she makes up for him. This might mean that once Jaenelle dies, even if she passes on the formula for her potion to Daemon and he uses his blood, the lesser potency will mean Saetan will begin to weaken again. And since Sylvia may only have another thousand years or so left to her, Saetan may wish to Fade with her rather than continue his half-life.

Saetan has done more to uphold the Old Ways than anyone else in the Blood's history. Allowing him to rejoin the living (at least for a time) and marry Sylvia was his reward from Lorn and Witch. They also have an ulterior motive unknown to anyone else - like Dorothea, they want Saetan's bloodline to be as prolific as possible. The more children to add Dark-Jeweled strength back into the Blood, the better.

Whether Daemon will take over the mantle of High Lord of Hell in my AU, hasn't been decided yet.

**5) Who is Surreal's husband and where did he come from? **

Bishop had two minor characters in different books that intrigued me. The first was Wyman, the wounded Warlord Daemon helps heal in "Heir to the Shadows". When Daemon disappears, Wyman and Surreal continue in a platonic relationship until she decides to search for Daemon again. Wyman never is referred to again. Then, much later on in The Shadow Queen, Butler is introduced as a mysterious spy sent by Jaenelle to join Sabrina's court. He is an aristo Blood male, and is a shadowy character who implies he is quite willing to kill Kermilla if Sabrina will say so, no Protocol reason required.

Killing a Queen can't be taken lightly, especially as Kermilla's a District Queen with an established Court. Yet Butler shows no fear of paying blood-price. So I thought, hmm, here's a man with manners but few morals...and long ago there was a man who spent months with Surreal in what was, as far as we know, one of the very few non-sexual relationships she allows. Most importantly, there's no mention that Surreal ever meets Butler in the canon.

What if...I assumed that those two men are one and the same man? These men never meet up; they're never described physically. We know Wyman killed a Queen; that's how he got injured to begin with. Butler, on his part, shows no compunction about offering to kill a Queen - and he wouldn't, if he's done it once before already.

Combining these two minor characters into someone Surreal would find common ground with, seemed perfect. Wyman accepts Surreal as she is, whore and assassin both, and can live with her moods. Butler has the superficial Court polish she needs to deal with her new Kaeleeran life, but has an underlying ruthlessness and black humor that meld well with a prickly, snarly, Gray-Jeweled witch.

**6) Where does the SaDiablo name come from? **

Saetan is pretty much the world's greatest father, as written by Bishop. He has a hard time keeping up with Witch, but he almost never puts a foot wrong with his two sons. And with those strong, angry, dominating personalities, isn't that interesting that he's so good with them? So perfectly what they need at just the right moment? He has so much stronger a relationship with his fourth and fifth sons, than he did with his first and second sons.

It's also interesting that Bishop uses all three of Saetan's names so often; no one else in her books is referred to in this way except for him. Yet Saetan is a bastard, the son of a unnamed whore. Where did he get those last two names? Just thinking about where the SaDiablo name came from, led me to some interesting speculation.

Before she married Saetan, Hekatah couldn't find any record of the surname SaDiablo in Hayll. Saetan is a common name in those times; her family has a footman with that same name. He was a bastard, yet became the most powerful Warlord Prince ever. Saetan is instinctively seductive - where did this come from? How was Daemon able to inherit this psychic trait? Bishop tries in Twilight's Dawn but fails to impress us with any other Blood male's seductive ability. Both Saetan and Daemon have an extraordinary and unusually high degree of sensual charm, much stronger than other Blood males. Even Surreal, a hardened whore, finds herself responding to the casual touches from Saetan during her first interview with him.

I don't agree with those who think Saetan's mother was uncaring and abusive. He's a very loving person...and you need to be loved, in order to learn to love. To be the kind of man he is, instinctively, deeply protective of women, shows a man who as a child was loved by his only parent. He might have been poor and had to fight to learn to survive - but he was loved, and knew it.

His protectiveness towards women stems from a childhood of wanting to protect the one woman in his life, his mother, but being unable to. He's compensating, and in the case of Hekatah, clearly over-compensating. As Titian points out, he isn't comfortable hurting or killing women. He'll do it, but he hates himself afterwards.

Thus, his mother couldn't give him a full surname as if she'd known the name of the father - e.g., Daemon is called Sadi instead of SaDiablo, and Lucivar is called Yasi instead of Yaslana, as they are considered bastards with known family surnames in Terreille (Book 1 of BJT).

So there was no shortened surname, as she didn't know who the father was. He must have been a stranger whom she met and who then left, never realizing she had become pregnant. I think his mother picked a surname which eventually became his midname, and Saetan picked his own surname - which will be in story #3, "In The Beginning" that will be posted soon.

**7) Any more stories with Saetan?**

I am working on a 'next generation' BJ story #4, but am having difficulty with it. If I ever do finish it, I'll publish it on this website. But so far, no go.


End file.
